


The More Things Change

by KouriArashi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Bigotry & Prejudice, Chris regrets his choices, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Gerard is the Worst, Good Peter Hale, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Murder, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski is an Argent, Werewolf Hunters, but before the story starts, some character death, when it's convenient to him at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, there was a major war between the supernatural world and the mundane. Now Beacon Hills is cut off and the Argents are in control, and the supernatural creatures are slowly being hunted down. But when Stiles, who was adopted by the Argents after the death of his parents, makes friends with the Hale Pack, things start to change...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Okay, friends and neighbors! This started as a Petopher fic inspired by [this gifset](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/127278344184/halevneck-petopher-au-years-ago-peter-left) and (as usual) rapidly spiraled out of control into a dystopian Teen Wolf AU where there was a major war between the supernatural world and the mundane. Now Beacon Hills is cut off and the Argents are in control, and the supernatural creatures are slowly being hunted down. Further explanations to come, of course.
> 
> Just a note of caution that this fic has multiple POVs, so things might get confusing when different characters believe different things (Gerard has spread a lot of misinformation, among other problems) and remember that the character’s opinions aren’t always my opinions. I’m saying this mostly because Peter’s narration in particular is very Scott-negative, but the fic isn’t Scott-negative, if that makes sense. Just Peter. Because, you know. Peter. =D
> 
> A warning for basically all the things, I’ve mentioned them in the tags but be prepared for: stories about murdered parents, issues surrounding adoption and feelings of inferiority, psychological manipulation from both good guys and bad guys, indoctrination of children/child soldiers, torture, and past rape (because Kate Argent). Also sex, there will definitely be sex at some point.
> 
> Also it’s probably going to take me like 8 chapters to get to the actual inspiring prompt, LOL. Let’s just say that the slow burn is going to be pretty slow, given that Chris and Peter aren’t even speaking to each other at the beginning. Derek and Stiles will probably get things sorted out faster. XD

 

‘The more things change, the more they stay the same,’ Talia had once said, laughing as she had listened to the description of a fight that Peter had had with his boyfriend. Peter had laughed, too, but not for the reason she thought. Everyone thought Talia was so wise and understanding, but a lot of the time, his sister was an idiot.

The more things changed, the more they changed, until suddenly you’re standing in the ashes of a dystopian hellscape that used to be your life, wondering how in the world you wound up there. The sister who had spoken those words to him has been cold in the ground for six years, and he hasn’t spoken to that boyfriend in almost as long.

Instead of a sister that he begrudgingly respected and a boyfriend he was constantly, playfully at war with, now he’s left with a ragtag pack of children. Derek is their alpha, if he can really be called that, and the pack has fragmented and rejoined what feels like dozens of time because he can’t keep them together. They’re too frightened and too stubborn. Nobody trusts anybody. Too many people have died for trust to still be a thing in Beacon Hills.

That’s part of why Peter makes sure he stays just slightly apart from Derek’s pack. He’s really the only adult in their little group of survivors. So they come to him for advice, or what he supposes passes for wisdom. Which he frankly finds laughable, and he’s sure that Talia would be laughing as well.

He’s up front with them. His advice basically always boils down to ‘look out for number one’. And if they can’t see the inherent flaw in taking advice from someone who lives by those words, well, they’ll probably get themselves killed without needing any help from him.

Because those _are_ the words he lives by. He looks out for his own skin first and foremost, which is why he doesn’t want to be burdened by a group of helpless teenagers. Their soft-heartedness has gotten them into trouble more than once. Rescue missions end with three people dead where before it would have just been one. Trying to stay together has attracted attention which has gotten people killed.

They want to be a family, and in Peter’s opinion, there’s nothing more dangerous than that.

There had been a time, years ago, when he had stood over his sister’s grave and sworn to get revenge. He had carved the spiral in the tree next to where her body lay.

But he’s been beaten down again and again since then, and by now all he cares about is survival. The sting of his family’s loss hasn’t exactly faded. It’s more that _everything_ has faded. It’s hard to care about revenge, about loss, when you’re shivering in an attic and you haven’t eaten in days.

All Peter wants to do now is live.

And these stupid teenagers, they don’t get that. They don’t get that survival should be their goal, each of them, individually. And so they’ve been dragged through the mud over and over again. They’ve lost people. A lot of people. And every time they disagree, things break into factions, and Peter can’t stand listening to them squabble.

It never breaks down the same way twice. The root of the conflict is almost always Derek versus Scott – the most ungrateful, obstinate beta that Peter has ever had the misfortune to know – but the way the others fall changes. Cora usually sides with her brother, but if Lydia falls into Scott’s camp, she can be swayed. Isaac, Derek’s first beta after his sister, logically sides with Derek but then emotionally sides with Scott. Malia, a daughter after Peter’s own heart, flips back and forth like a coin in midair to whichever side she thinks will win. Erica and Boyd always side with each other, and whoever decides first gets to pick.

Then they’ll split up angrily, Scott will take whoever sides with him off into the night, and things will be quiet for a little while. Until someone gets lonely, and they all wind up crashing in one place. Nobody bothers apologizing. It’s just how they live now.

Or at least, it was how they lived until about six months previous. That was when Stiles walked into their lives, and everything changed.

It was insane to trust him. He was the son of Chris Argent. He was part of the militia run by Gerard and Kate. He had been brought up to hate and fear everything supernatural, he had probably assisted in the murder or capture of dozens of their friends. When he showed up on their doorstep to warn them that their location had been betrayed and there was going to be a raid, they should have killed him right then and there.

But they didn’t, because Scott was a soft-hearted idiot who wanted to believe the best in everybody, and because Derek trusted Stiles for a very, very stupid reason. It was the same reason that _Peter_ wanted to trust Stiles, despite all the things that told him what a bad idea it was.

It was because of a chocolate bar.

Stiles had always been a rebellious kid, and four years previous, he had gotten pissed off at his father and run away from home. It was a stupid enough idea for _any_ kid to wander around Beacon Hills, especially a kid who smelled like silver and gunpowder. He had run afoul of a couple of Satomi Ito’s betas, who had figured out who he was within two minutes. They had kicked the shit out of him and decided to hold him for ransom.

That was probably a pointless plan, which Peter could have told them, because Gerard Argent most likely didn’t give a plugged nickel about his grandson’s life. And it was coincidence that Derek had run across them, while a bruised and battered Stiles spat all kinds of obscenities at the two betas and promised revenge.

“He’s just a kid,” Derek said, when he saw what Stiles looked like.

“He’s an Argent,” the beta retorted. “We’re going to make him pay for our friends in blood.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s been out here killing your friends personally,” Derek said. “What are you, kid, eleven?”

“I’m thirteen!” was the indignant response.

Derek gave the betas stern looks and judged them with his eyebrows until they reluctantly let Stiles go. Derek brought him back to the den, or more accurately, to the rundown tenement that they were calling a den on that given day. Laura had ripped his head off for bringing the kid back to their hideout, but Derek just shrugged and said, accurately, that it was almost time for them to move anyway. It was too late at night for Stiles to walk back home himself, and Derek wasn’t going anywhere near Argent territory to take him there.

“I’m not going home,” Stiles said, face creased in a scowl.

“Most of the people here would kill to have your life,” Laura responded, exasperated.

“You don’t know anything about my life!”

“Well, I know you don’t live in a God damned hole in the ground,” Laura retorted. “I know that you know where your next meal is going to come from, and that you don’t have to worry about people hunting you down. I know that you don’t have to worry about your water source being poisoned, or what you’re going to do next time it rains. So maybe you should get over yourself!”

Peter didn’t think that sort of rant was going to get them very far with a thirteen year old, but Stiles looked surprisingly pensive for a few minutes before he just said, “Okay,” curled up, and went to sleep in the corner.

The next morning, in the chilly, predawn air, Derek and Peter had walked him back to the edge of the Argent complex, or as close as they could come without getting shot. Stiles had climbed over the fence and disappeared without another word. Peter watched his retreating back for a minute before saying, “Come on, let’s go get ready to move.”

After some discussion, they decided to stay one more night in the tenement. They needed time to scope out a new place, make sure it isn’t already occupied, make sure it’s secure. They all agreed that the odds that Stiles was going to go tell his family about their location were pretty slim. Not unthinkable, and moving was a good precaution, but even Peter wasn’t too worried.

He wondered if he _should_ have worried when he heard a quiet thump outside their door the next morning. The others slept through it. He climbed down from the loft he had been sleeping in and eased the door open. There was nobody there, but there was a box. He examined it for several minutes, sniffing carefully, but didn’t smell anything dangerous, so he brought it inside.

The others had woken during this noise, and Derek was rubbing sleepily at his face. “What is it?” he asked, as Peter flipped the top off the crate and stopped in surprise.

It was food. And not just food, but some other sundries as well. There were two bags of beef jerky and a large box of granola bars – good, nonperishable food. Then there was a bottle of water purification tablets, three boxes of matches, a battery-powered lantern and a collection of batteries. Right on top there was a chocolate bar. Plain old Hershey’s milk chocolate, wrapped in a piece of paper that read in chicken scratch handwriting, ‘thank you for helping me’.

Laura unwrapped the chocolate, and the scent of it made all their mouths water. Things like candy were a luxury they just didn’t get anymore. Not since the Argents had taken over. They had to scratch the ground just to survive. Who had time for something like candy?

With shaking hands, Laura split the bar into four equal pieces and handed them out. They each accepted it and ate it in solemn silence. Cora, who was only twelve herself, sniffled a little. Laura cried, too.

They moved that night, and they hadn’t seen or heard from Stiles in the intervening years, but somehow when he turned up at the warehouse the pack lived at, it seemed completely natural to the three remaining Hales. And Peter trusted him. Not because they had saved him, or because he had brought them supplies that had saved them. Because he had brought them a chocolate bar. Because he realized that just because they were werewolves didn’t mean they weren’t people. He had treated them like human beings.

Stupid, Peter thinks, staring at the ceiling while he listens to the pack bicker. He wonders where Stiles got it from. It sure as hell wasn’t from his father. Peter closes his eyes and thinks of Chris Argent, of his strong hands and straightforward demeanor and take-no-bullshit attitude. He thinks of Chris naked in bed with him, of the many times Chris had talked about what a terrible idea this was, but always swung back to Peter like he was magnetic north. He thinks of asking Chris for help getting his family out of the rapidly building chaos in Beacon Hills, and he thinks of Chris refusing, two days before Talia and the others had been killed.

No, Stiles is nothing like his father. Not in any of the ways that matter.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Hey, Dad.” Stiles drops his jacket on the back of a chair as he goes through the living room. He’s cold and covered in mud and too tired to care about the look that Victoria gives him.

“Hey, long day?” Chris asks, looking over from where he’s cleaning his gun at the dining room table.

“Field exercises from dawn ‘til dusk. When’s dinner?”

“About another twenty minutes,” Victoria says.

“Cool. I’m gonna duck into the shower.” He heads into his room and strips out of his muddy uniform, tossing it into the hamper. He hates the uniform almost as much as he hates the field exercises. But there’s no help for either of those things. Gerard runs his teams with military precision. The smallest screw-up and he’d be out on his ass, no matter who his father is. And if that happens, he loses all the access to information and supplies that he’s been using for the last six months.

He turns the water on in the shower but leaves it tepid. The Argents might live in comparative luxury, given the conditions in Beacon Hills, but even they only get so much. The town is completely cut off, and everything is run by gas generators now. They only get electricity at certain times of day, and hot water will only last about ten minutes. Victoria will want it for the dishes after dinner, so if he uses it up, she’ll be pissed at him.

Laura hadn’t been wrong when she had said that he didn’t have to worry about food or shelter. The Argents controlled everything coming in and out of Beacon Hills, so they got the best of everything. But even they only had so many luxuries.

Beacon Hills was nestled in a little valley in northern California. There was only one road in or out, and it had been blocked off for years now. Things outside were bad, Gerard Argent warned the townspeople. The werewolves and supernatural creatures had taken over everywhere, killing for sport and taking what they wanted. Here, by the grace of Argents, the civilians were safe.

Anyone who tried to get out came back in pieces. A casualty of the werewolf packs that roamed the forest and the mountains.

Stiles had seen a few of those bodies. Oh, they came back in pieces all right. Gerard even had a set of werewolf claws he used to do the job. Nobody noticed the bullet hole that had actually killed the person. But it had been a while since that had happened. Nobody tried to leave anymore. Stiles wonders sometimes how bad the outside really is. He wouldn’t be surprised if supernatural creatures _had_ taken over, if they had banded together to fight the humans who want to kill them just for being what they are. But he also wouldn’t be surprised if they had been eradicated, and Gerard just kept Beacon Hills isolated because he liked being a military dictator. Maybe when every last supernatural creature in Beacon Hills is dead, Gerard will release his iron grip on the city.

He wants desperately to get in on one of the supply runs that Kate makes, but that’s an elite team of professionals and he’s years away from that. Once a month, Kate leaves town with five or six guys, and comes back with food and supplies. Some of it does look pretty old and battered, and she can’t always get what they want or need. So Stiles thinks that there are probably kernels of truth to Gerard’s tales of the outside world. He just doesn’t know which kernels are true.

Once Kate comes back, the supplies are distributed to the townsfolk. People who have reported supernatural activity get an extra share. Anyone whose tip led directly to the capture or ‘disposal’ of a supernatural creature will get a special gift. So the civilians of Beacon Hills are always eager to help the Argents and their militia hunt down their former neighbors.

Stiles looks in the mirror and realizes that his lip has curled up. He stops and takes a deep breath, forces his expression back into calm. He’s been spending too much time with the Hale pack. He should just drop off the supplies and go. But it’s hard. He wants to spend time with Scott and Isaac and play lacrosse like regular teenagers. He wants to flirt and talk comic books with Erica. He wants to – well, when it comes to Derek Hale, it’s probably a better idea not to think about what he wants. There’s a romance that’s going to go nowhere quickly. Stiles is well aware of how Kate Argent had gotten the information that had gotten three quarters of the Hale family killed.

From now on, he’ll just give them the supplies and the patrol schedule and then go. And if they ask why, he’ll tell the truth. He’s getting too close, picking up too many mannerisms, and someone is going to notice. They’ll understand that.

He rinses the mud out of his hair and then gives it a quick scrub with soap. They don’t have any shampoo or conditioner at the moment, but people washed their hair with soap for centuries. He gets out of the shower and throws on a T-shirt and sweatpants.

The civilians of Beacon Hills piss him off sometimes, but he knows he can’t blame them. They’re frightened. They’ve bought into Gerard Argent’s narrative of evil werewolves who will steal their babies, and that isn’t really their fault. Gerard’s fearmongering tactics are a time-proven method of getting a populace on your side. Supernatural creatures are scary by default, and people want to trust their soldiers, their government.

In any case, there’s not much reporting left to do. Very few of the supernatural creatures even try to lead a normal life anymore. Hell, hardly anyone does. There’s still school for children, but most of the people in town work directly for the Argents now. There’s no point in stores when everything that comes in is carefully rationed. They don’t have the room to farm, although some people do have their own gardens, and Kate sometimes brings in seeds. There are some professionals who still work in their old jobs – doctors and nurses, an electrician, a plumber or two, a barber of all things – but everything is done by a barter system now. A barter system that is, of course, heavily regulated by the Argents. The rest of the town works for the militia – sewing uniforms, doing maintenance on their trucks or weapons, or whatever manual labor the militia needs at the moment, whether it be repaving a road or building a new guard station.

People still spot the supernaturals occasionally if they leave their haunts, and will definitely report it, but most of the hide and seek is done by the militia itself. That’s why Stiles joined. Knowing the patrol schedule has been infinitely helpful in keeping the Hale pack safe, among many others. And it’s not actually that bad. Three days of training or field exercises, two days on patrol, and two days off.

“Hey, Stiles!” Allison greets him as he walks into the kitchen. She’s setting the table.

“Hey, what’s up, do anything fun today?” Stiles asks. At Chris’ insistence, Allison is kept as far removed from the war as possible. She’s home schooled, although Victoria takes her into town twice a week so she can socialize with a few other non-supernatural teens. Like all of them, she reads a lot, because it’s something to do, so she’s smart as a whip. She’s just completely indoctrinated into the Argent way of life, and there’s not really anything Stiles can do to change that.

“I finished reading that book I was telling you about, the one about Vietnam?” Allison says. “You’d like it. I’ll loan it to you now that I’m done.”

“Okay, cool.” Stiles helps her set the table and then sits down. They have spaghetti and meatballs and a salad. The lettuce is pretty wilted, but nobody says anything. It’s a week to the next supply run, so the fresh food is getting pretty old at this point.

“I don’t like the fact that they’re making you crawl around in the mud in this weather,” Chris says, after listening to Stiles talk about the obstacle course he had spent most of the day doing. “You could catch a cold.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Stiles says.

The specter of illness looms over all of them. Kate’s supply runs often come back with some basic medicine – antibiotics or painkillers – but a serious illness would basically be impossible to treat in these conditions. That was how both Erica and Scott had wound up in the Hale pack to begin with. When the town had gotten cut off, access to the medication they both needed – Erica for her epilepsy and Scott for his asthma – had dwindled. As their conditions had worsened, both families independently decided that they would have a better chance as a healthy, hunted werewolf than as a sick human.

“Pathetic,” had been Gerard’s opinion when he had found out about Scott’s defection. Melissa had worked as a medic for the militia, so they knew her. But she had disappeared underground at the same time that Scott had.

A cold, if left unchecked, could become pneumonia, and that could kill even a healthy teenager like Stiles. So he could see why Chris was worried. Personally, _he_ wasn’t worried. If he really got that sick, he would just leave and go to the Hale pack to be turned. It would suck to lose their inside man, but Stiles would prefer that to being dead. They had survived years without his help. They could do that again, if they needed to.

The radio crackles before they’ve finished eating, and Chris walks over to get it. All communication is done by radio now. It’s old-fashioned, but it works. Phone lines have been down for years, and the Argents prefer to keep it that way, so the townsfolk can’t talk as much among themselves.

“Chris, you there, over.” It’s Kate’s voice on the other end.

“Go for Chris,” he says into the radio.

“Hey, just got a hot tip!” Kate sounds cheerful, bloodthirsty as always. “Someone spotted one of the werewolves rooting around in the dump. We’re suiting up. Are you game? Over.”

“Kate, I’m eating dinner with my family, over,” Chris says.

“Suit yourself, old man,” Kate replies. “Over and out.”

Chris rolls his eyes and goes back to the table. Everyone in the room – possibly everyone in the town – is aware of how much both Gerard and Kate disdain Chris’ choices. He still works for the militia, still runs patrols, but he sticks mostly to training now. He has two kids to look after.

Stiles is also well aware that Chris never wanted him in the militia to begin with. But the fact that preteen Stiles had been a simmering ball of rage had been problematic for everyone. He had run away from home half a dozen times, had gotten into trouble, picked fights. Once he had gotten far enough out of town to almost get shot by one of the perimeter patrols, who had recognized him just in time.

“The militia will be a good outlet for some of his energy,” Kate had said at the time.

Gerard had been more blunt. “Put him in the militia, or I’ll put him down.”

Good times, Stiles thinks. Gerard has always loved him.

The feeling is mutual.

But Laura’s words that night had made him realize that the militia was the best place for him to be. The militia was where he could do the most good. So he had gone home that morning and told the truth about where the bruises came from – a couple werewolves had beaten him up but he had managed to get away – and said he wanted to join. He was so young, that at first it had all been training. But he had been doing patrols since he had turned fifteen. And it _had_ helped control his anger issues. Chris couldn’t complain, but Stiles knew he didn’t like it.

Now he has a dilemma, though. He knows that the Ito pack has been living at the edge of the dump lately. They’re sure to be caught.

Sometimes when he gets wind of a raid, he can get away from whatever he’s doing without arousing suspicion, sneak off the complex, and warn whoever’s in harm’s way. It takes Kate and one of her teams about twenty minutes to suit up, and Stiles knows every shortcut in town. But sometimes he can’t, and now is one of those times. There’s absolutely no way he could get out of the house right now without his parents wondering where he had gone and why.

It’s hard when this happens. It’s the hardest part of his double life, when he know that someone is going to die, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“Stiles?” Allison asks, and laughs when he jolts. “Earth to Stiles. You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles says. “Just really tired.” He puts down his fork and forces himself to smile at his sister. He loves her, and he hates her sometimes, but mostly he just pities her. “I think I’m going to go sack out with that book you were talking about and get some sleep.”

“It’s your night for dishes, Stiles,” Victoria says, with her laser stare. Victoria had been very firm that she didn’t care if Stiles was in the militia; he was still a member of this family and expected to do his part. Ironic, given that her idea of being his mother had always been cold efficiency at best, so markedly different from how she treated her biological daughter.

“Come on, Vicky, look at the poor kid,” Chris says.

When Victoria didn’t bend, Allison says, “I’ll do them for you tonight if you’ll take my turn doing laundry this weekend.”

“Deal,” he says, and he loves his sister again. He feigns a yawn and heads for the bedroom. He can’t sneak out that way. There are bars on his windows – put there after the third time he had run away. Chris had wanted to take them down. Gerard hadn’t allowed it. He likes Stiles knowing that he’s trapped, even when he’s on his best behavior.

So there’s nothing he can do for the Ito pack, beside close his eyes and hope that they manage to get away from Kate and her goons. And there’s nothing Chris can do for him, because every time he tries to get Gerard to soften up on his son, it only makes him harder.

Stiles doesn’t care. He’s tough. And the day of reckoning for Gerard Argent is coming. That thought puts a smile on his mouth as he drifts into sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! <3

 

Lydia’s screaming wakes them. It’s not exactly an unusual occurrence. Even with Stiles helping the Hale pack dodge the patrols and the raids, that doesn’t help everybody. He tries to spread the wealth as much as he can, but there are limits. Last-minute raids are both the most hard for him to predict and the most likely to result in casualties.

Everyone is sitting up by the time Lydia stops screaming, and she sits and draws in a breath while Cora gets an arm around her shoulders, supporting her. Then she says in a somewhat ragged voice, “Kiyoshi Ito.”

There’s a murmur of understanding. Cora rubs her back and glares around at the others as if daring them to say something.

“We’ll double the watch tonight,” Derek says. There’s a quick flurry of discussion before everyone works out the shifts, and those not on watch fall back into an uneasy sleep. Peter waits until that’s happened, then stands up and leaves the little cubby that he’s been using as his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” Cora asks.

“Upstairs,” he says, and climbs up to the roof. He likes to sit up high, to observe things around him. There’s probably no need to double the watch. Raids are rarely directed at more than one group in a night. But they always do, and it’s saved them a couple of times. Peter would always rather err on the side of caution.

Lydia was the one pack member who Peter had actually approved of. Most of the others just felt sorry for her. She had lived as a completely normal human until shortly after her seventeenth birthday, when her banshee nature kicked in. It took less than a week for her classmates to figure out something was up with her, and report her to the Argents. She had come stumbling into the supernatural side of town with what seemed like half the militia on her heels, and Scott and Cora had rescued her.

Derek hadn’t really wanted to take her in, because her human side made her vulnerable. But Peter thought that someone who could sense death would be handy, and he had been right. She was the most recent addition to their pack.

After Laura’s death, the three of them had wandered on their own for a while. But Derek had trouble maintaining the alpha power without three betas. After some discussion, they had agreed that a few packmates would help. Only a few, Peter had said. The more members the pack had, the more they had to keep fed and sheltered.

Through a variety of trials and errors, they had wound up with Isaac, Boyd, and Erica. That was quite enough for Peter, and he found all of them tolerable enough. They wound up adding Scott after his mother had come to them for help. Peter often wished they hadn’t, but Derek had chosen just that moment to go all soft-hearted.

Malia was a different story, and surprisingly unrelated to the fact that he was her biological father. He’d had no contact with her during her childhood, been only peripherally aware of her existence. Nobody had notified him when she had gone missing after a car accident, but Derek had come across her in the woods, living in her coyote form. He had recognized her as a Hale by scent and brought her back to their little den.

Peter had been honest with her. He wasn’t the sort of person who would make a good father, so when her mother had said she was giving her up for adoption, he had agreed. It seemed like the best course of action to give her a good life. It hadn’t worked out that way, but nobody had predicted the sudden clash between the supernatural and the mundane worlds, and the complete implosion of both that had followed.

Despite the world around them having changed, Peter’s predilection towards parenthood hadn’t. Malia surprised all the others by agreeing to that without complaint. She called him Uncle Peter, like Derek and Cora did, and they never talked about it again. The other pack members had helped her find her adopted father, Jack Tate, and make sure that he was safe.

Only a few of their parents are left now. Scott has occasional contact with his mother – one of the things he and Derek regularly argue about. They would all be safer if he would cut contact off entirely, the way Erica had with her parents. Boyd’s father still lived in town, and so did Lydia’s mother, but they saw them very rarely.

The pack had to stay isolated to stay safe, and Derek beat that into them constantly. He’s not a bad alpha, Peter supposes. He’s gotten better at it. He’s standoffish and headstrong, and he doesn’t endear himself to needy teenagers. But he’s adapted, learned to listen, gotten better at tailoring his orders to the pack’s specific skills. Lydia’s introduction had helped, too. She and Cora got along like a house on fire, throwing shade at everyone in their path, and Lydia is smart enough to understand how people think. With her help, they can usually prevent Scott’s temper tantrums. Usually. But not always.

Peter has already started preparing for the day that the pack is going to split in two. Some jerk Druid told Scott something about becoming an alpha through the ‘power of will’, which sounds fake to Peter, and he’s mentioned it several times since then. If he manages it – or possibly even if he doesn’t – he’s going to leave, and it’s a tossup on any given day who will go with him for good.

In the long run, staying in Beacon Hills isn’t feasible. They occasionally hear rumors of how the outside world is even worse, how the military controls everything and supernatural creatures have been hunted to extinction. The patrols talk about it sometimes. It was Chris’ lame excuse for why he wouldn’t help smuggle the Hales out of Beacon Hills.

Peter doesn’t see how the outside world can be much worse, to be honest. And he’s deeply skeptical of everyone’s agreement that it must be much worse. They’re living in an information vacuum. Everything they ‘know’ is probably propaganda from Gerard Argent. It wouldn’t surprise Peter if he had told the townspeople the exact opposite, that supernatural creatures controlled the outside world, to keep them in line.

But the truth is, he just doesn’t know. And he can’t make it out. The perimeter is too heavily guarded. Scott wants to leave. He thinks that if they work together, they could make it. Derek is too cautious. They’re surviving here. It isn’t pretty, but they’re doing it. Scott thinks Derek is a coward, and sometimes calls him that to his face. That usually results in Cora losing her temper, which results in Lydia getting sarcastic, and the argument devolves into trivial garbage and old grievances and nothing is accomplished.

That’s fine with Peter, because he thinks Derek is right for once. Until things change – which given Stiles’ entrance into the picture isn’t unthinkable – they should stay where they are.

He comes down from the roof at sunrise to find Malia waking the others. There’s some quiet discussion.

“We’ll split up,” Derek says, before the discussion can get very far. Peter concurs. They’re less conspicuous in small groups. They can forage and scrounge and come up with some resources. “Groups of three. We’ll rendezvous at the warehouse in District Five in three days.”

Everyone agrees. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd always stick together. Scott will take Lydia and Malia. They pack up what few things they have. Cora leans over to give Lydia a brief kiss. Their farewells are quick and clean. They’ve done this before, and will do it many times in the future, Peter is sure. There’s no need to make a fuss.

Derek stares after his departing pack, brooding, until Cora punches him on the shoulder. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s move.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Patrol days are Stiles’ favorite days of the week. He gets to prowl around the streets of Beacon Hills. More important, he gets to leave the Argent complex and get the hell away from his insane family for a little while. He’s usually paired with Harris or Braeden, although he prefers the latter by far. Harris is a dick, although at least he’s a professional dick. Patrols are four hours long and they do two in a day, with a two hour break in between. It’s always one on perimeter, and then one through town. No sweat.

He prefers the perimeter patrols, if only because they’re quiet and he doesn’t have to deal with civilians. Beacon Hills doesn’t have a police force anymore, so the militia gets to deal with petty crime as well as supernatural nasties. And as much as there’s supposed to be a system in place, that doesn’t stop civilians from coming up to the patrols to report problems or complain.

“Hey, where’s Harris?” he asks when he sees Matt Daehler standing by the door with his gun casually slung over his shoulder.

“Broke his ankle during last week’s raid,” Matt says.

“Great,” Stiles says, trying not to sigh audibly. He hates Matt, primarily because Matt is a jerk, but also because Matt can’t go two minutes without –

“How’s your sister doing?”

\- talking about Allison. “She’s fine.” Stiles is careful to keep his tone noncommittal. He already misses Harris and they’ve barely left the compound. It’s a sad day when he misses Harris, whom he can barely tolerate on a good day.

“She get the note I sent last week?”

“I don’t know, man. I didn’t ask.”

“But she hasn’t mentioned it?”

Allison can take care of herself, and there’s absolutely no reason for Stiles to get his back up every time Matt perseverates on her. She has no need of an overprotective big brother when her father is Chris Argent. “Not to me.”

“Does she like lavender?”

“The color or the flower?” Stiles asks. Then he adds, “Whatever. The answer is yes either way.”

“Cool,” Matt says, nodding in a manner that he obviously thinks is suave. “Thanks for the intel.”

Stiles resolves to ignore him. They walk the streets in silence. Matt occasionally asks questions about what Allison likes or doesn’t like, but after Stiles gets annoyed and lists one of her dislikes as ‘pushy guys’, he takes the hint and drops the subject. He gets quieter as they reach the bad part of town (not that Beacon Hills really has a good part of town). This is where the supernatural creatures hide out, and although they probably won’t dare attack a patrol, it does happen occasionally. This isn’t a raid, so they aren’t supposed to go into any of the buildings or specifically go looking for anyone. Patrols are for gathering intelligence and occasionally picking up strays.

As they come around a corner, Stiles sees a girl half in a dumpster, just pulling herself out. She turns to look at him, and they both freeze. It’s Cora.

“Hot damn, is that – ” Matt is already getting his rifle up. He knows damned well who it is. All of the members of the militia are constantly drilled on the identity of wanted supernaturals.

Matt’s quick, but Stiles is quicker. He has his gun up, aimed, and has let off a brief burst of gunfire just as Cora turns to run. The bullets catch her in the back of the legs and she goes sprawling.

“Damn, _nice_!” Matt says, already jogging forward. “Take her alive, nice one, Argent – we’ll get commendations for this for sure – ”

Stiles hangs back a little, because Matt has clearly forgotten one of the cardinal rules of werewolf hunting, probably because he’s never actually faced a werewolf. And Stiles doesn’t want him to remember it. So he waits for Matt to run over, waits while he grabs Cora by the shoulder to roll her over, and waits while Cora grabs his arm and yanks it around, slamming him into the ground so hard that chips of pavement go flying.

“You fuckin’ shot me, you jerk,” she grumbles, hobbling to her feet.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, although he isn’t, not really, and doesn’t feel he needs to be. She knows exactly why he did it, and she isn’t really angry. Matt groans a little and starts trying to push himself back up, and they both freeze again. Stiles winces and looks at Cora. “Make it look good.”

He doesn’t have time to brace himself before Cora grabs Matt’s rifle and clocks him upside the head with it. He finds himself lying on the ground, trying not to moan too loudly. He hopes to hell that Cora will keep any other lurking creatures from deciding to kill two of the militia while they lie there and try to remember which way is up.

“The fuh,” Matt slurs out. “Whuh the fuh han’d?”

“C’mon,” Stiles says, grabbing Matt by the collar and tugging him to his feet. He manages to half-support, half-drag Matt out of the bad part of town and back to base. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, they both need medical attention.

Stiles is cleared by the medics pretty quickly. There’s some concern that he has an orbital fracture, but there’s not much that they can do about it if he does. He doesn’t have a concussion. His eye is swollen shut, and they won’t know whether or not his vision is affected until the swelling goes down. He gets an icepack and a painkiller that barely makes a dent in the pain and is sent on his way. Matt will be there longer. He has a broken nose and a broken jaw. Stiles is thrilled that he won’t be able to talk about Allison for a while. He’s also glad that Cora must have pulled her punches, at least a little.

He’s looking forward to going home and passing out, but instead he winds up sitting in Gerard Argent’s office. “Got to fill out an incident report, son,” Gerard says with that disingenuous smile that Stiles hates so much. “So what happened?”

“Not much to tell, sir,” Stiles says. “We caught up with a werewolf, and then she caught up with us.”

“Mm hm. Where were you?”

“South side. District nine.”

“Shots were fired?”

“Yes, sir. We came around the corner and spotted her coming out of a dumpster. I aimed low, hoping to hobble her so we could capture her and interrogate her about where the others are. Matt went to immobilize her, but he was too slow, and she kicked the shit out of both of us.”

“Were you covering him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you didn’t fire when she assaulted him.”

“They were too close, sir. I didn’t want to hit Matt.”

Gerard nods as if he understands this. “Why didn’t Matt use his stun gun before he put his hands on her?”

“You’d have to ask him that, sir.”

“You didn’t remind him to?”

“I generally trust my partner to know what they’re doing.”

Gerard nods again. “Okay. So you came around the corner . . .”

Stiles gives a nearly inaudible sigh. He’s not even up to being snarky. His head is killing him. He can’t see out of one eye. He just wants to lie down for a while and not deal with Gerard being an asshole. “And we saw a werewolf. I fired my gun, and she fell. Matt went to apprehend her, but he didn’t follow protocol and as a result we both got our asses handed to us.”

“How did she get your gun?”

“She didn’t. I was still holding it. She got Matt’s gun, and used it to knock me out.”

“Mm hm. Let’s go over it one more time.”

They go over it three more times. Gerard perseverates on something else stupid each time. To a point, Stiles doesn’t actually blame him. The incident _was_ a cock-up, although that was mainly caused by Matt forgetting that you never approach a werewolf on the ground without your stun gun at the ready. He’d been too excited at the prospect of capturing one and getting commended. And Stiles hadn’t technically followed protocol, either – he had covered Matt with his gun, but of course made no effort to intervene when Cora had attacked him.

On the fourth time, Stiles is starting to get cranky, and Gerard ups the ante when he comes around the desk to press his fingers into Stiles’ throat and measure his pulse. Stiles _hates_ it when he does that.

“Your pulse is pretty fast, son,” Gerard says.

“Maybe because I’m in a lot of pain and I’m repeating this story for the sixth time,” Stiles says. He resists the urge to add ‘and don’t call me son’ because he knows it’ll only make things worse.

“So you admit it’s a story?”

“Oh my God!” Stiles loses his temper. “It’s just a phrase, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know why you can’t just – ”

“What’s going on here?” Chris demands, as he barges through the door. “Harris said you’ve had him in here for nearly an hour. Look at him, for God’s sake, he should be seeing the medics – ”

“Medics already cleared him, Chris,” Gerard says, not losing that smile. “We’re just having a conversation about what happened in the field. Stiles didn’t follow protocol.”

“ _Matt_ didn’t follow protocol,” Stiles says. “And I got my face smashed up because of it.”

“What the hell was he doing out in the field with Daehler? You sent two kids to do a south side patrol?”

“I deploy my troops the way I see fit,” Gerard says. “And Stiles is welcome to leave the militia any time he has a problem with my orders.”

Chris’ scowl deepens. He drags a chair over and sits down so he can face Stiles. “Just tell me what happened,” he says, and Stiles sighs and repeats the story again. Chris listens with a faint frown on his face. Then he turns to Gerard and says, “What’s so difficult to understand about that sequence of events, that you need to keep him in here for an hour?”

“Well, first of all, I’m curious about why Stiles didn’t address Matt’s breach of protocol,” Gerard says.

“I didn’t _realize_ he didn’t have his stun gun out,” Stiles says. “I didn’t figure that he was a complete moron, that he would just trot right on over to a werewolf and think he could subdue her with his bare hands.”

“And I’m curious as to why Stiles didn’t fire on the werewolf in question.”

“I already told you, she was too close to Matt, I didn’t want to risk hitting him.”

“Do you think that was the right decision?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Chris says. “Stiles, I’m taking you home. We can talk more about this later. You have no right to hold my son in here and interrogate him. If he made a mistake in the field, we can address it in training, but you’re treating him like a criminal. I don’t see you doing the same to Matt Daehler even though he’s the one who actively broke protocol. And when we’re done addressing any mistakes my son might have made, maybe we can discuss why the hell you sent two seventeen year olds into the field on a patrol together even though I had explicitly asked you not to send Stiles out without an adult.”

Chris already says Stiles by the arm, and Stiles doesn’t object to being towed out of the office. His father is still fuming as they walk down the road, but he takes a deep breath and squelches his temper. “Let me see your face,” he says, and Stiles moves the ice pack away. Chris winces. “Ouch. Fracture?”

“Maybe.”

“How’s the eye?”

“I think I can still see out of it, now that the swelling has gone down a bit.”

“Okay, good.”

Stiles glances sideways at Chris as they start walking again. “Is this why I always get paired with Harris or Braeden?”

“Yes. I asked my father not to send you out without someone who has actual military experience.”

“I’m surprised he agreed.”

“He said he would do it until you were eighteen.” Chris is visibly frustrated. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you in the militia. You could have been killed today.”

Stiles just gives a shrug. There’s no way to argue, even though it’s not really true. And he had saved Cora’s life. If Matt had been out there with someone more experienced, she would be dead right now. So he has literally zero regrets. But that isn’t something he can say to his father.

“Look, Stiles,” Chris says, “I know that you think you’re doing good work. But . . .”

His voice trails off. Stiles gives him a minute, curious about what he might say, then prompts, “But what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” Chris gives his head a decisive shake. “Let’s get you home and see about a new ice pack.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“What do you mean, he _shot_ you?” Derek demands, after hearing the first tenth of the story Cora was trying to tell over the fire.

“Der, he had to,” Cora says, somewhat impatiently. “If he hadn’t, his partner would have, and he would have aimed a lot higher. I’m fine.”

Derek’s scowl deepens. He trusts Stiles – God knows why, but he does – but he doesn’t like the idea of his baby sister being in trouble. “How did you even get spotted? We all had the patrol schedule. You _did_ have the patrol schedule, didn’t you?”

“I memorized it like everybody else,” Cora says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I lost track of time. There was some good stuff in that dumpster. I screwed up, okay? It happens.”

It wasn’t an answer that Derek likes, even though it’s a completely reasonable one. It isn’t the first time one of them had gotten hurt, and it won’t be the last. But Cora doesn’t understand how it feels to be the alpha, to be responsible for everyone. Losing their family was hard on all of them, but Cora was only eleven when it happened. She had recovered in a way that Derek never had.

None of them know what it’s like to be huddled up at the hideout and suddenly feel that surge of alpha power and know that your sister is dead. They hadn’t found Laura’s body until three days later, but they knew that she had been killed. They didn’t even know for sure what had happened, although it was obvious that one of the patrols had somehow captured her. They had tortured her for information on the whereabouts of the rest of the Hales, but Laura had died without saying a word.

Derek had struggled after that. He didn’t want the alpha power, but was desperately afraid that he wouldn’t be able to protect Cora without it. He had recurring nightmares of waking up and seeing his blue eyes in the mirror instead of red. That was why they had turned the others. He had figured teenagers were a good idea. Adults might argue with him, might not want to follow the orders of a man barely into his twenties who admittedly had no idea what he was doing.

He hadn’t foreseen all the extra worry that having younger people dependent on him would bring. Every time one of them got hurt, it felt like his fault. Every time the pack split up, it was his fault for not being able to keep them together. One of these days, two or three of them would follow Scott and they’d all get killed and that would be his fault too.

“You can’t blame everything on yourself,” Cora says, when she sees the way Derek is brooding. They had talked about this before. Survivor’s guilt, Peter calls it. Derek wonders sometimes how much Peter knows about what had happened to their family. He wonders if Peter knows about Kate, and what Peter would do if he did. He doesn’t think he does. Peter had fixated on blaming Chris, on Chris’ refusal to help them, and that had kept him from looking for deeper explanations.

Maybe trusting Stiles is a mistake, too, just like trusting Kate had been. Maybe that’s going to get them all killed.

If Stiles was a double agent, he’d had plenty of opportunities to betray them. But Derek reminds himself for the millionth time that trusting Stiles to warn them about raids can’t be their entire strategy. They have to stay on alert. It never lets up. Not for a second. And he’s tired. He’s always tired these days.

“What are you thinking?” Cora asks.

“Just . . . wondering how far we can trust Stiles,” Derek admits. “I mean. He’s an Argent. Peter trusted Chris, and look where that got us.”

“That is a _really_ bad comparison,” Cora says.

She’s right, and Derek knows it. He had asked Peter once about his relationship with Chris, shortly after Malia’s arrival. Peter didn’t really like to talk about it. In fact, since Talia’s death along with the others, he rarely even mentioned Chris. But he answered readily enough, that they’d had an on-again, off-again, never serious or emotional, relationship. Malia had been conceived during one of the off again periods, as had Chris’ daughter, Allison.

“There was something magnetic about it,” Peter said, during one of those rare, brief moments where he opened up and let Derek see him. “We both knew it was a bad idea. That was part of the fun. The forbidden fruit. I guess I didn’t realize up until the end how strongly I actually felt, and how much it disappointed me that he had never felt the same way.”

Things with Kate had been different. He’d had no idea of her family. He had never thought to ask. He had been fifteen, for Christ’s sake, and she was gorgeous and vivacious and took him on the ride of his life before it all came crashing down.

And now there was Stiles. But it doesn’t matter what Stiles’ intentions are. He’s not going to make the same mistakes twice. He’s not going to trust anyone the way he had trusted Kate, ever again.

“Besides, Stiles isn’t technically an Argent,” Cora says.

Derek scowls again. “I know that.”

Everyone knows that. Even without Peter’s inside information – the fact that Chris had told him about Stiles’ adoption – the murder of the Stilinski family was one of the first incidents that had touched off the war between the supernatural and the mundane. Murdered in their home by a werewolf, their toddler son clutching their bodies and wailing. Someone had snapped a photo of Stiles being led out of the house by Kate Argent, his clothes soaked with blood. It had been on the cover of TIME magazine, for God’s sake. Derek’s not about to forget that any time soon.

The crime had never been solved. People had demanded accountability, answers from the alphas in the area. It had led to werewolves being murdered while trying to surrender to the police, to lynch mobs and literal witch hunts. The tension had been building for a while, and the Stilinski murders had been a spark tossed onto a patch of gasoline. The military had been called in to ‘settle things down’, and everything had spiraled out of control.

Derek doesn’t know why Stiles helps them, after his parents were killed by a werewolf. He doesn’t know how much of what happened Stiles is even aware of. He was four years old at the time. Chris and Victoria had taken him in and apparently raised him like their own.

Stiles’ motives are a total mystery to Derek, so that’s what he tells Cora over breakfast.

Cora looks unimpressed. “You could do something revolutionary like _ask_.”

“It’s not my business.”

“If we’re all depending on him, then yeah, it kind of is,” Cora says. “Use your words. Come on, big bro. I know you’ve got it in you.”

“Smartass.” Derek gets up and starts cleaning up the remains of their meager spread before anyone can smell the food and demand a share. “Pay more attention to the patrol schedule next time.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Cora replies.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~the plot thickens~

 

“Oh my God, Stiles, are you okay?” Allison asks, abandoning her math homework as her brother comes in through the door with the mostly-melted icepack still held against his bruised face.

“I’ve had better days,” Stiles says, as Chris steers him into a chair. “If Matt Daehler ever asks you out, you’re now contractually obligated to say no. Dumbass almost got me killed.”

“Matt’s a creep anyway,” Allison says. Chris watches the two of them as she pulls the ice pack away to get a better look at the damage. He heads into the kitchen and wraps a towel around some ice from the freezer. “What happened?”

“I took down a wolf, and Mr. Trigger Happy went to subdue her without his stun gun at the ready,” Stiles says. “She kicked the shit out of both of us.”

Chris seethes silently at this reminder of why his son is injured. He knows better than to think nobody ever makes mistakes in the field. Matt’s mistake was understandable. He was a rookie. He had never actually faced a werewolf before, had no real comprehension of how dangerous they were. Matt had figured that after receiving half a dozen bullets to the back, she’d be down for the count.

Stiles’ mistake of not firing once the werewolf had started to move was equally understandable. An adult might be able to make that split second call of risking a comrade’s life by firing in a close combat situation. It wasn’t the sort of choice that a teenager should ever be forced to make.

Whenever he brought that up to Gerard, his father just said, “That’s the world we live in now, son,” like that made it okay.

Chris knew that Stiles was being punished because it was a way for Gerard to keep Chris in line. A way to demonstrate how flawed he thought Chris’ choices were. Watching his son suffer for things that weren’t his fault made Chris burn with the injustice of it all.

Sitting there in the kitchen, watching Allison gnaw anxiously at her lower lip as she examines her brother’s injuries, he decides he’s going to put a stop to it. He claps Stiles on the shoulder and tells him to take it easy for the rest of the day, and then heads back to the militia’s HQ, in what used to be the high school. But he doesn’t go talk to Gerard. That’s always pointless.

Kate is there, prepping her things for their next supply run. “Hey, big bro,” she says, as he walks in. She’s always glad to see him, never treats him like Gerard does. Chris has no delusions about where her loyalties lie, but if she can help him without pissing off Gerard, she usually will. “What’s up?”

“Heard about what happened on patrol today?”

“Yeah,” Kate says, reassembling her gun with lightning accuracy. “Daehler’s going to be laid up for a while, I heard.”

“I don’t care about Daehler,” Chris says. “I care about why Dad was treating Stiles like a criminal.”

Kate lays her gun across her lap and gives Chris a considering look. “Is your persecution complex rearing its ugly head again, Chris?”

Chris glowers at her. “Dad never wanted me to adopt Stiles and you know it. He’s treated Stiles like dirt ever since they met. And that’s nothing to say of what happened after . . .” He closes his mouth, because bringing up what happened to the Hales is a pretty good way to get Kate to start rolling her eyes and disagreeing with everything he says on general principle. “My point is, he was way out of line today. What’s going on?”

“It’s not what you think,” Kate says. She sets her gun down and stands up, going over to the door and closing it. “Dad thinks we have a mole.”

“In the militia?” Chris asks.

Kate nods. “We’ve been getting more misses than hits on our patrols for the last few months. And our raids have been even worse. We’re only finding people where we’ve been tipped off that they’ll be about twenty percent of the time now. Someone is giving the rats in the sewers fair warning. And it has to be someone in the militia, because nobody else has access to that kind of information.”

“And Dad thinks that it’s Stiles?” Chris asks, feeling skeptical. “Stiles hates werewolves and everything they stand for.” Gerard had certainly made sure of that. His father had always made a big deal out of the murder of Stiles’ parents, of what brutal monsters the werewolves could be. Chris wishes he hadn’t stood back and let it happen, but he can’t do anything about it now.

“No,” Kate says, scoffing. “Dad thinks it’s you.”

“Jesus Christ.” Chris rubs both hands over his head. “And what will interrogating my son accomplish?”

Kate shrugs. “Soften him up, make him feel like he’s in trouble, he might have agreed to spy on you, report back to Dad. Anyway, I told him it was stupid. The only thing Stiles hates more than werewolves is our daddy dearest, courtesy of his tender treatment.”

“Did you tell him that it was stupid to think that I was a mole?” Chris asks.

“Yeah, I told him that too,” Kate says. “You had your chance to pick sides six years ago. What the hell would you be doing trying to change that now?”

Chris doesn’t reply. What can he say to that? Kate is right. He could have helped the Hales and he hadn’t. He’d had good reasons, but he still hadn’t, and now they were dead. He hadn’t seen Peter in years, and he supposed that Peter probably hated him. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could fix.

“Look, Stiles will be out for a week or so anyway,” Kate says. “Dad will cool down.”

“If I have my way, Stiles won’t be coming back at all,” Chris says.

“Good luck with that.” Kate gives a snort of laughter. “That kid takes after you in all the wrong ways. He’s stubborn as hell, thinks he knows better than anyone else, and is basically a fountain of misplaced rage.”

“Yeah.” But Chris is thinking about it now. If he can get Stiles away from Gerard and Kate for a little while, even if it’s just a few weeks, maybe he can get through to him. The problem is that what happened to his parents will always hang over all their heads. Stiles is convinced that all werewolves are monsters, because monsters killed his parents. “Hey, Kate,” he says. “You ever have any ideas about who killed Stiles’ parents?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’ll give Stiles something to do, something to focus on. You were the one who found them.”

“If I knew anything, I would have said something a long time ago. You know, when it mattered. Whoever it was, they’re probably dead by now anyway. Hold this.”

Chris lets her dump a bunch of supplies into his arms while she pulls out a box for them. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he says. If Kate doesn’t know, he knows somebody else who might. Somebody who always knew everything about what was happening in Beacon Hills. ‘Suspicious knowledge’, he had called it once, and Peter had laughed and agreed.

Not that Peter has any reason to talk to him. But he won’t know until he tries. And it’s for Stiles, for his son. He walks out of Kate’s office pretending that that’s the only reason he’s suddenly excited about seeing Peter Hale.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Despite the bars on his windows, sneaking out of the house is easy for Stiles. His parents both go to bed early. He waits until ten thirty or so and then leaves through the front. He stays in his pajamas when leaving his room, so if they happen to be up, he just says he was going to look for a snack. He keeps a spare set of fatigues in an out of the way spot by the fence.

Once he’s changed, he heads for the supply warehouse. There’s only so much he can steal at a single time, and he keeps meticulous records so he won’t be caught. The first time he had brought supplies to the Hales, Gerard had figured out it was him in two days. Fortunately, they hadn’t figured out exactly _who_ he had brought the supplies to. He claimed that it was to an old woman who had helped him get away from the Ito Pack, and they hadn’t questioned.

Ever since Stiles had joined the militia, he had studied it like it was a living thing, learned its ins and outs. He had learned who was responsible for what, who was good at their job and who was sloppy, who took it seriously and who didn’t. He had memorized requisitions and learned to forge signatures and drawn maps of the different buildings to keep track of where everything was stored.

All the records he kept were encoded with a cipher, the kind that couldn’t be broken without the key. The key he used was obvious, but he doubted that anyone in the Argent family knew how to spell his full name, his _real_ name. God knows they had never attempted to use it.

The warehouse itself doesn’t have a guard. Theft inside the complex has never been a problem. There’s a lock, but Stiles got a copy of the key a long time ago. He opens it up, goes inside, and turns on his flashlight. Then he gets his bag and starts filling it up.

There’s only so much he can carry, but since it would be a bad idea to steal in bulk, it doesn’t really matter. He runs down the current inventory list and makes a plan. A bag of oranges. A collection of canned vegetables. Some canned tuna – that’s a special treat. That’s about all the heavy stuff he can carry. He throws in a couple boxes of tampons and half a dozen bars of soap. Hefts the bag, testing it. Sets it down, adds some pasta, some dried beans, and a small bottle of kerosene. That’s as much as he can carry. He goes over to the logbook and adds the supplies he removed, signing off with the name of one of the sergeants. He rotates, to make sure nobody gets suspicious.

He’s long ago perfected the timing of getting over the fence, between the guard patrols and the floodlights. From there it takes ten minutes to jog over to Deaton’s and get the current layout of the city, where everyone is hiding. And then he heads for the warehouse district, where the Hale pack is holed up. He stops outside and takes a deep breath. He’s not exactly sure of what his reception will be, after what happened with Cora.

As soon as he pokes his head in, several voices bombard him. “Hey, you’re back!” “Hey Stiles!” “Look who’s back, everybody!” He enters the room the rest of the way, flushing slightly pink as Scott pounds on his back and Erica smacks a kiss onto his cheek. He can’t help the smile that’s starting on his face. He belongs here. Not at the compound with the Argents.

He knows that they’re his family, and he’s grateful that they took him in, but he’s never belonged there. There’s a hundred little reasons why that maybe only he can see. It’s in his freckles and his Polish name that his adopted family can’t pronounce. It’s in the way Victoria always treats him second best and never asks for his opinion. It’s in the way Chris is the opposite, bending over backwards to make Stiles feel welcome. It’s in the way Allison sometimes looks at him quizzically like she just doesn’t understand what planet he’s from.

And Gerard, it’s there in everything Gerard says and does. Every time Stiles sees Gerard, he’s four years old again, tucked away behind the couch while his parents are murdered. He hears that cold, gravelly voice saying, “It’s a shame it has to be this way” before the gunshots. He had nightmares about that voice for years. He recognized it when he heard it again, when Gerard moved back to Beacon Hills just after his twelfth birthday. But what could he say? The Argents had already taken over. There was no way out. Not for any of them.

This isn’t a way out, but it’s a place he can go and forget all of that, even if it’s only for a few minutes each week.

“How’s the face?” Erica asks.

“Not too bad,” he says. “Brought you guys some goodies.”

They start to rifle through. He smiles up at Cora as she walks over. “You okay?” he asks her.

“Yeah, all healed up.” She gives him a not-at-all hard punch to the shoulder. “Sorry about your face.”

“Born with it,” he says, and she laughs. The werewolves are already splitting up the oranges, and Lydia has found the tampons and declares Stiles her new best friend.

“Seriously, you don’t even know what it’s like to go without,” she says.

“Soap? You trying to tell us something, Stiles?” Isaac asks.

“Nothing you didn’t already know,” Stiles replies. He looks up as Derek walks over, his face set in its usual scowl. “Hey, Derek. Want an orange? There’s one for everyone.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Derek accepts the fruit and looks at it pensively. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, feeling his stomach churn. He’s not even sure if it’s a good churning or a bad one. He doubts Derek wants to talk about anything that should give him butterflies. Which means that whatever it is, it probably isn’t good. But there’s only one way to find out. He follows Derek outside, into the little alley behind the warehouse. “What’s up?”

“I was just wondering . . .” Derek stares off into the darkness. “If we can trust you.”

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head. “I’m sorry about Cora, really, but if I hadn’t shot her Matt would have, and – ”

“It’s not about what happened with Cora.” Derek finally looks at him. “I have to keep these people safe. That’s my responsibility. So I need to know if I can trust you.”

“Not one hundred percent, no,” Stiles says, and Derek’s eyebrows go up. “I can’t promise I’ll always get information to you in time. Or that the information I get will always be good. I’ll be caught sooner or later, I guess.” He turns away. “Don’t rely on me, Derek. Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anybody. That’s how we all have to live now.”

Derek nods. They stand there in silence for a long minute. “Why are you helping us?” Derek finally asks.

“Because you helped me,” Stiles says with a shrug. “It’s really not more complicated than that. You had no reason to help me, but . . . you did.”

“You’ve more than paid it back by now.”

“I don’t think that’s how karma works,” Stiles says, then shakes his head. “I guess I don’t believe in karma anymore. I help you because it’s the right thing to do. And because you helped me, and you would help me again if I needed it, and someday I probably will, because Gerard will eventually figure out what I’m doing, and his reaction won’t be pretty.”

Derek thinks it over, then gives a jerky nod. “Okay,” he says, and heads inside without another word. Stiles sighs a little and follows him.

“Hey!” Scott is immediately jogging up to him. “We’re getting a game of volleyball going, you in?”

He should go. He knows that. The longer he’s gone, the worse the risk of being caught. But . . .

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “For a little while.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

During the day, while the pack holes up and hides, or scrounges for food or supplies, Peter wanders. Derek doesn’t like that he does it, but Peter is only nominally his beta. Derek rarely tries to give him orders, and Peter seldom obeys even when he does. It’s dangerous, Derek says, but Peter maintains that he can take care of himself. In any case, he’s terrible at staying one place. He always has been. He thinks best when he’s moving.

He listens in on the patrols and he spies on the other supernatural creatures. He collects intelligence for no reason other than having it. He explores the ruins of Beacon Hills and sometimes finds things that can help them. Boyd and Lydia have been working together to try to create a solar-powered generator, and sometimes he finds scraps that they can use.

When he gets bored or tired, he holes up in what’s left of the public library. The books have long since gone to scavengers for tinder during the worst times, but he’s kept a secret stash hidden underneath one of the floorboards. Only about half a dozen titles fit inside, so he kept only those that he knows he could re-read until the day he dies. Anna Karenina. The Once and Future King. Good Omens. They can take him away from his bleak life for just a little while.

As soon as he enters the library, he knows that someone has been there. Their scent is still there, a little old now, clinging to the walls. It’s Chris Argent’s scent, silver and gunpowder, coffee and aftershave. Not a scent he’ll ever forget. He stands there and breathes it in for a minute.

He heads for his stash of books. The scent is stronger there, concentrated. Chris had gone looking for Peter’s stash, had _known_ that it would be there. There’s a new book on the top of the pile; ‘new’ in that he hasn’t seen it before, although it’s as old and tattered as the rest. The Picture of Dorian Gray. He picks it up and finds a piece of paper tucked inside. ‘Need to see you. I’ll be here every day at dusk until you are.’

Peter glances around as if to make sure that he’s alone. The library is empty and silent, not a heartbeat to be heard. He wonders how many days ago Chris had left this note. More than a week, judging by his faint scent on the books. But his smell in the library is fresh, recent. He has indeed been there every day.

It’s late afternoon now, so Peter decides he’ll wait. He doesn’t want to see Chris, but he’s intensely curious as to what the hunter might want. And although he wouldn’t admit it, the fact that Chris still knows him well enough to have figured out exactly how to contact him in these circumstances makes him feel shivery inside, in a way that he hasn’t in a long time.

Having the high ground will be important in this conversation, both morally and physically. Peter scouts things out a little before nestling away in a little alcove on the second floor. The library is set up in a large square, with a balcony overlooking the main room. He’ll be able to see Chris enter from there.

It’s been about an hour, and he’s deeply engrossed in the book, when he hears the creak of the main door. His heartbeat picks up despite himself. Chris takes a few steps inside, his gun up and tucked against his shoulder, gaze keen and alert as he scans the empty space. Then he puts the gun down. “Peter,” he says.

Peter doesn’t bother to ask how Chris knew he was there. Chris is a hunter. It’s what he does. He leans against the balcony, but stays in the shadows. “The years have been kind,” he says, with an edge of sarcasm to his voice. Chris doesn’t look _bad_ by any means, but Peter is less concerned with reality and more concerned with making Chris feel like shit. The hunter’s face is lined and worn now, and his brown hair is gray at the temples. He has a beard, too, which Peter tries to ignore because Chris with facial hair has always done terrible things to him.

As an opening gambit, it fails. Chris apparently doesn’t care at all about Peter’s opinion on his appearance. “I need to ask you some questions.”

Peter holds back an exasperated sigh. Chris has clearly forgotten _all_ the things Peter has taught him. He’s going to have to start all over with the hunter if they’re going to have any fun. “Oh, yes, Christopher,” he says. “ _Interrogate_ me. I’m ready.”

Chris looks just as annoyed as Peter feels. “It’s important.”

“So I would assume. You haven’t made any effort to contact me in over six years, and yet, here you are.”

“I figured you wouldn’t want me to contact you,” Chris says.

Peter shrugs. “When has what I wanted meant anything to you?”

Chris doesn’t bite. “It’s about my son.”

“Your son.” Peter holds back a smile with effort. He wonders what Chris would do if he knew what Stiles was doing. Consorting with werewolves. Smuggling them supplies. Betraying his family. Chris doesn’t know his son at all. “Yes, how is dear little Stiles? I remember back when you used to tell me all about his exploits.”

“Stiles is fine.”

“No, he isn’t,” Peter says. “You wouldn’t be here if Stiles was fine.”

Chris gives a nod of acquiescence. “Well, your niece broke his face.”

“He started it,” Peter replies.

“I know.” Chris stares moodily into the rafters. Peter waits for him to get on with it. “I need to know who killed his parents.”

That isn’t what Peter was expecting. He looks at Chris in mild surprise. “Claudia and Tom Stilinski have been dead over a decade. You adopted their son and their deaths touched off a war. And you’re only _just now_ thinking to ask who did the deed?”

“It’s not like we didn’t investigate at the time,” Chris growls. “He was a cop, for God’s sake, and it was a public case. Nothing was ever found. But Stiles needs closure. If he can put their deaths behind him, then maybe he can . . .”

“Can what, Argent?” Peter asks, when Chris trails off.

“I want him to quit the militia before he gets himself killed.”

Peter stares at him, then begins to laugh. He can’t help it. “Good Lord, Christopher. I knew you were a jackass and a toadie but I never figured you for a hypocrite. Stiles is exactly what you’ve made him to be. A soldier. A werewolf hunter. A killer.”

“I know it’s hypocritical,” Chris says. He waits until Peter stops laughing. “I don’t want him to be like me. I know what being me is like.”

“Are you so unhappy, Christopher dearest?” Peter asks, smirking.

Chris says nothing. Gradually, Peter’s smirk fades away.

“I’m serious, Peter,” Chris finally says. “I want to help my son. If you won’t do it for me, do it for Stiles.”

“Why should I do anything for you _or_ Stiles?” Peter asks. “You wouldn’t lift a finger to help me if our positions were reversed.”

Chris gives a little shrug. “Because when you know more than me, you like to taunt me about it.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” Peter muses. He wonders how much Stiles _does_ know about the deaths of his parents. He’s willing to bet that he knows a lot more than Chris does – and a lot more than Chris thinks he does. “Very well, then, Christopher. I’ll give you a clue. For old time’s sake. More of a riddle.”

“How generous of you,” Chris says, deadpan.

“The Stilinskis were killed when Stiles was four. You adopted him, brought him into your home. And he recovered from the trauma, slowly but surely. I remember you telling me about it. How you would have to stay up all night, holding him while he screamed. How Victoria resented all the attention you gave this child that wasn’t hers. How he gradually opened up to you. It was adorable, by the way. And if things had stayed that way, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. But they didn’t, did they? Something changed. Stiles became angry, rebellious. He got hurt, caused trouble, ran away from home, and eventually ended up in the militia. Why?”

“I get the feeling that you’re about to tell me,” Chris says.

“Oh, no, Christopher. There’s your riddle. If you figure out why Stiles changed when he was twelve, you’ll figure out who killed his parents.”

“The world went to war,” Chris says.

“The world was at war from the moment you took him in,” Peter says. “Things were already bad by the time he was seven. Try harder, Chris. Look closer. But consider that you might not like where the rabbit hole goes. And consider that there might be a reason why Stiles has never asked you to figure this out. He might not appreciate you poking your nose into it now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll find out,” Peter says, and with that parting remark, he exits out the back window without another word.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

 

If someone had asked, Chris would have said that he knew his son pretty well. They got along most of the time, except for the rough patch when Stiles was a preteen. These days, Stiles was open and honest with him. They could sit down and talk about a lot of different things.

He knows that being adopted is hard. Most of what had happened when Stiles was in his early teens, he had chalked up to Stiles finally being old enough to really understand what had happened. And God knows that there were some family members who really didn’t help. Victoria had never understood why he had taken Stiles in, never approved of the decision.

There were times when Chris had bitterly regretted marrying her, even though on a day-to-day basis they got along fairly well. He had proposed when she found out she was pregnant with Allison, and at that point they barely knew each other. They’d had a relationship that was far more physical than emotional, after one of his worse break-ups with Peter. She didn’t want to be a single mother, and said that Chris could either take the baby or she would have an abortion. Chris had proposed instead. He loves Allison with every fiber of his being, and doesn’t regret the decisions that had brought her into the world. But sometimes he thinks back and wishes that he had done it differently. Marrying Victoria had seemed like the right thing to do. God knew that Gerard had been happy that he was getting married and would stop ‘running around with werewolf trash’.

Chris gives a quiet snort and shakes his head. Marrying Victoria had in no way ended his relationship with Peter, and it hadn’t taken long for Gerard to figure that out. Gerard disapproved of basically everything in Chris’ life, and along with Victoria, he had frequently expressed his lack of comprehension on why Chris would choose to raise another man’s child.

At times, Chris wasn’t sure himself. There were other people who could have done it. That was before the entire world had gone to hell. Stiles’ parents had friends who could have taken him in. Kate had scooped him up and brought him home on a whim, then dumped him at Chris’ house when she realized what she had accidentally volunteered for.

Everyone tried to apply too much reason to it. The plain fact was, Chris had pulled a sobbing child into his arms and wanted to help him. Wanted to protect him. Wanted to be his father.

He had failed at a lot of things in life, but this, at least, he had pulled off. And it hadn’t been easy. An easier child, Victoria might have come to terms with, but Stiles was anything but. He had screaming nightmares almost every night. Chris would pace the house with him, rocking him back and forth until he fell asleep again. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for a toddler to find the still warm bodies of his parents. It was obvious that he had been in the house when it had happened, though after repeated questioning from a variety of professionals, it was determined that he had seen nothing.

At night he would scream, and during the day he would cry. He upset Allison. He annoyed Victoria. But somewhere, Chris had found a well of endless patience for this child, and as things got better, took it as a sign that he had been right. Moving Stiles around just would have caused further turmoil for him.

What _had_ happened when Stiles was twelve? Chris closes his eyes and tries to think back. It was only five years previous, but it seemed like a lot had happened since then. But the thing was, nothing in particular had happened that year. It was after the Hales had been killed. Gerard came to town to help settle things down, and that was when Beacon Hills had finally been cut off. But Stiles hadn’t cared about that. Besides, that had happened gradually. Peter had presented it like there had been one defining event that had changed everything.

“Vicky,” he says, helping her with the dishes, “do you remember the first time Stiles ran away from home?”

Victoria glances over her shoulder and frowns faintly. “Yes. Why?”

“I’m just thinking back . . . trying to remember if there was something specific that happened to trigger that.”

Victoria’s frown deepens. “I don’t know. You’re the one who talked to him afterwards.”

Which is true. Victoria had little enough time for her adopted son; the more emotional he got, the more she withdrew. One of the patrols had collared Stiles and dragged him back home, but he had been sulky and uncommunicative. He had finally muttered something about the other kids giving him a hard time about his parents. Chris had given him a thorough lecture on why it wasn’t safe to wander around by himself, then let it go. But Peter was right – everything _had_ changed after that day. Stiles had started refusing to do his chores, skipping school, mouthing off, stealing things. He even started using the phrase Chris had always dreaded – ‘you’re not my real dad’.

If the others kids _had_ been giving him a hard time, it might have caused that effect. The children of the militia were tough. Chris had heard them refer to people who got killed as weak or stupid, even after repeatedly being told not to. They were too young to realize how precarious things were in the field, how one moment of inattention or bad luck could result in someone’s death.

“Why are you suddenly wondering about this?” Victoria asks, drawing his attention back to the present.

“Just thinking about getting Stiles to take a noncombatant position,” Chris says. “That’s all.”

Victoria shrugs. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

“About why he turned into demon spawn after his twelfth birthday? I can’t imagine that would go over well.”

“I meant about taking a different position in the militia.”

“Oh. I asked him about that, he said his brothers and sisters were out there risking their lives in the field and he didn’t feel he could do any less.” Chris shook his head wearily. It was the sort of sentiment he found admirable. He just wished it wasn’t coming from his son. “I’m just not sure how to get through to him.”

“Well, hopefully he’ll enjoy the time off,” Victoria says. “Hand me that platter.”

Chris does as he’s told, and finishes with the dishes in silence.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Winter is the most dangerous time in Beacon Hills. The shortened days leave less time for foraging, which results in hunger. Hunger plus cold lead to an increase in risky behaviors. Derek has been very firm on everyone being in by sunset, no matter what they have or haven’t found. If they go to bed hungry, so be it. Better hungry in bed than dead on the street.

It’s the cold that’s the worst, though. The more the temperatures drop, the stronger the urge to abandon caution and find a warm place, _any_ warm place, to sleep. Even just lighting a fire is dangerous. It can attract attention, and not just the militia. All the supernatural creatures are competing for territory and resources, and some of them are more nasty than others. Derek and his pack have been having increasing trouble with some of the creatures in town, especially with a wendigo family. They had caught Malia and nearly eaten her before they’d been able to rescue her. Relations had been tense since then. The Walcotts, being almost as large a family as the Hales were a pack, needed more space. They had taken over one of the warehouses that Derek regularly used as a hideout, and he wasn’t happy about it.

The longer winter drags on, the worse it gets. The constant cold and dark get to people. And although Derek doesn’t like to admit it, the pack doesn’t do well with being penned in together. The more time they spend together, the shorter tempers get. This is their second winter as a pack, and he’s amazed that nobody has killed anyone else. But they’re surviving. It seems like it’s been years since the first real cold snap, so the worst of it might be over soon.

At the moment, they’re holed up in the ruins of what used to be an ice hockey rink, and the sun is going to be setting in less than fifteen minutes. He looks up as Erica and Boyd come in, and some of the tension leaves his body. They’re the last. Everyone made it.

But he’s barely relaxed when he heard footsteps pounding towards the den. The others look up, startled, as Stiles bursts through the door. He heaves in a breath and gasps out, “Raid – right behind me – go – go!”

Everyone tenses to run, and a few of them glance at Derek. He shouts, “Pair up, library in two days, go!” and they scatter like Stiles dropped a bomb. Derek takes off, too. When they split into pairs, he doesn’t have a partner, since the pack has an odd number. Peter will stay with Cora. The others just grab whoever’s closest to them when trouble hits.

He’s made it out the back door and is halfway up the fence when it occurs to him that he doesn’t see Stiles among the fleeing teenagers. He hesitates, then drops back down. “Derek, come on!” Peter hisses, already over the fence.

“I don’t see Stiles,” Derek says. “Go ahead, I’ll be fine.”

Peter doesn’t wait. Cora seems to want to, but he has her by the wrist and pulls her away. Derek runs back into the warehouse and looks around to see Stiles crouched behind some long-collapsed scaffolding, obviously hoping he can go unseen while he catches his breath. It occurs to Derek that Stiles had probably just covered several miles at a run, and even the best conditioned human would have trouble with that. “Come on!” he shouts.

“I’ll – be okay – ” Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t argue. He grabs Stiles and slings him over his shoulder. The teenager yelps, but it’s more out of surprise than an active protest. Derek goes back out the door and over the fence with Stiles clinging to him.

For several long minutes, the only noise is Derek’s feet hitting the pavement and the whistle of the wind in his ears. He heads for an old building on the edge of town where he’s stayed before and climbs up the fire escape. Once they’ve reached the roof, he sets Stiles down. The teenager is still trying to catch his breath, but manages to say, “Piggy-back would be better next time.”

“Then next time, say something about not being able to run instead of just waiting to die,” Derek shoots back.

Stiles grumbles at him but doesn’t actively protest. They both sit there in silence until he finally sits up. A look of slight surprise crosses his face, and he says, “Wow.”

“What?” Derek turns to see what Stiles is looking at, suspecting some sort of danger. Instead, what he sees is a beautiful sunset. It’s just gone below the horizon, and the high vantage point gives them a gorgeous view of the mouth of the valley. He sits down next to Stiles on the edge of the roof and they both watch the light fade out of the sky.

“What do you think it’s like out there?” Stiles finally asks, his voice quiet.

“I don’t know,” Derek says.

Stiles kicks his feet back and forth. “Gerard always talks about it like it’s a war zone. He tells all the townspeople that the supernatural creatures have taken over, that they banded together and got control.”

Derek blinks at him. “But – ”

“I know. He has the militia spread rumors about the opposite while they do patrols, whenever they think there might be monsters in earshot.” Stiles looks pensively out into the distance. “He has everyone sitting right in the palm of his hand. But I guess it doesn’t matter. We can’t get out.”

“The others talk about trying. Scott thinks we can make it.” Derek shakes his head. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe if you helped us – ”

“I can’t,” Stiles says. He sees Derek’s face start to crease back into its familiar scowl and says, “I would if I could. But I can’t. I don’t have the clearance yet. The perimeter patrol is pretty high up. Even the people who are _on_ that patrol don’t actually know who’s being assigned and where. I know that Gerard has snipers out there but I have no idea where they’re stationed.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Derek, but I can’t help you get out of here.”

“Well.” Derek huffs out a breath. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know that. It was an expression of sympathy, not an apology.”

Derek gives him a sideways look with one eyebrow arched in judgment, but then shakes his head and lets it go. “What happened today? Do you know? I mean, you usually get more notice than that – ”

“Ugh, yeah.” Stiles pushes both hands through his hair. “It takes Kate and her guys time to suit up, and then they don’t really move quickly, so I usually have about a half hour to get to whoever’s in trouble. And that’s if it’s a short notice raid, which if the tip comes in at the wrong time, it isn’t. Depending on who the target is and the time of day, I sometimes have a few hours. But this time, I heard the tip come in while I was in training. First I had to fake a sprained ankle, then I had to convince the medic I was okay, then I had to limp away until nobody could see me. To be honest, if it had been anyone but you guys, I probably wouldn’t have risked it.”

“What was the tip?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Somebody saw Scott’s mom, followed her until she met up with Scott for their daily hug-fest, and then followed Scott.”

“God _damn_ it – ” Derek’s temper nearly snaps right then and there. “I’ve told him a million times that if he _has_ to keep in touch with her, he needs to be _careful_ – ”

“It’s his mom,” Stiles says, with a shrug. “I mean, yes, okay, he absolutely should be careful and you should probably kick his ass, but . . . he’s not going to stop seeing her. Would you be able to cut off yours, if she was still alive?”

Derek scowls at him, but manages at the last second not to snap, ‘What do you know about it’ which would be the father of all stupid questions. He turns back to the light fading out of the sky. “One of these days, he’s going to get us all killed. That or he’ll take off and drag a few of the others with him and get them killed. And it’s going to be my fault.”

“No, it won’t,” Stiles says. “You can’t control him. If he does something stupid and gets killed, that’s not on you.”

“I brought him into the pack.”

“If you hadn’t done that, he’d be dead already.” Stiles shivers. The temperature is dropping, and he can see his breath. The run had kept him warm, but the adrenaline surge has worn off.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, too,” Derek snaps at him.

“Not me,” Stiles says, with a smirk that he can’t help. “I’m too smart.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Stiles shrugs. Then he shivers again. Derek reaches out, hesitantly, and pulls Stiles against him. Stiles goes stiff in surprise, but doesn’t protest. In fact, he cuddles a little closer, and Derek feels something stir inside his stomach that tells him he just made a big mistake. “It’s going to be bitter cold this week,” Stiles says, oblivious to the feelings that Derek is now wrestling with. “I was going to bring you guys some of those heat packs that Kate hands out to the night patrols.”

“We’ll be all right,” Derek says. “You need to lay low for a while after this.”

“Yeah. I should probably go, in fact. My parents are going to be wondering where I am.” Stiles pulls out of Derek’s arms and stands up. But he doesn’t actually leave. He just stands there and stares at the mouth of the valley for a long minute. “Hey. Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure,” Derek says.

“Mieczysław.”

“I . . . what?” Derek is too befuddled to even reply with ‘gesundheit’.

“It’s my name. Mieczysław.” Stiles doesn’t look at him. “I don’t think my parents realize I remember it. They couldn’t pronounce it, so they just started calling me this butchered version of my last name, like it was some way to honor my roots or something.”

Derek ponders that for a moment. “Say it again? Slower,” he adds, and Stiles does. “Mieczysław,” he says carefully.

“Yeah.” Stiles gives him a sad little smile. “That’s my name.”

“Do you want me to call you that?” Derek asks.

“Not really,” Stiles says. “I just wanted somebody to know.” He zips up his jacket. “I’ll see you later.”

He climbs over the edge of the roof, onto the fire escape, and he’s gone without another word.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles knows he’s going to be in deep trouble by the time he gets home. It’s been dark for well over an hour. His family will be eating dinner and wondering where the hell he is. If anyone has told Chris about how he was ‘injured’ during training, they’re going to know something’s up. If somebody connects that to the failed raid, he could be in real trouble.

He stands by the fence and for a moment entertains the idea of just not going back. He could hook back up with the Hale pack. They’d make it somehow. Even without access to the patrol schedules, he still knows a lot about how the militia operates, and he could be an asset.

With a sigh, he lets that fantasy go. As much as he’d like to go curl back up in Derek’s arms – something which is definitely going to keep him up at night in more ways than one – it won’t do. He’s not done with the Argents yet. Not until he gets his chance at Gerard. So he waits until the lights have moved away before climbing over the fence and heading back home.

He’s sure that Chris is going to be pacing angrily and Victoria’s going to have that pinched expression of disapproval when he gets there. So he’s surprised to find them sitting down at the dinner table and eating without concern. Allison looks up as he comes in, and a bright smile crosses her face. “Hey! How was your date?”

“My – it was, uh, it was great,” Stiles says, fumbling a little but recovering well. “You know, I had a good time.”

“Did you eat?” Victoria asks.

“No, we uh, we just walked around the edge of the complex,” Stiles says, hoping that he won’t blow whatever cover has miraculously sprung up out of nowhere. “We got a drink down at the commissary but we didn’t eat anything.” He sits down at his place and accepts the platter of baked chicken that she hands him. His stomach growls accordingly. He thinks of the thin, hungry looks of the people in town, and shoves it aside. He needs to keep his strength up if he’s going to be any use to anyone.

Chris is smiling at him. “You should have her over for dinner this weekend.”

“I will absolutely ask her,” Stiles says, so now he at least knows the gender of the person he supposedly had a date with, if not the name.

He catches Allison’s eye. She smiles merrily at him and says, “Does anyone mind if I have the last leg?”

“Go ahead,” Victoria tells her daughter, and then starts talking to Chris about what supplies she’s asked for from the next supply run. Stiles takes the opportunity to fill his face and avoid having to talk. He ducks out of the room as soon as he’s able, doing the dishes in a frenzy.

He’s barely sat down on the edge of his bed when there’s a knock on the door and Allison pokes her head in. “What’s up?” he asks, and she comes in and shuts the door behind herself. “Uh oh.”

Allison grabs his desk chair and turns it around so she can straddle it backwards and face him. “So!” she says. “Since I know you weren’t actually on a date with Heather, where were you?”

“Oh, Heather,” he says, with a touch of relief. Heather’s nice, he can totally bring her over for dinner without it being a catastrophe. “Wait, what?”

Allison gives him an impish smile. “I happened to be down at HQ today, because Mom had asked me to bring a list of requests to Kate about supplies. Then I got cornered by Daehler,” she adds, rolling her eyes, “who obviously wanted me to admire his war wounds, so I was still there when I saw you limp out of the infirmary. When I got home and you weren’t here, I figured you were up to something, so I told Mom and Dad that you had a date with Heather and might not be home in time for dinner.”

“Geez, do I owe you one,” Stiles says, huffing out a breath.

“Yes, you do,” she says, “which is why you’re now going to tell me where you actually were.”

Stiles grimaces. “Look,” he says, “you have to _promise_ you won’t tell Mom and Dad. Or Aunt Kate. Or _anybody_.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Allison says, drawing a heart over her chest.

He can’t tell her the truth, that’s obvious, but she knows him too well for her to believe a lie. So a partial truth will be the best way to handle this. “Sometimes I sneak supplies to the town,” he says. “You know, Gerard insists on hoarding all the good stuff for himself. The folks in town get the basics, but they don’t – there are a lot of people who go without a lot of stuff. So once a month, a couple weeks after the shipment comes in and people are starting to run low on things, I bring some stuff down into town. That’s all.”

Allison chews on her lower lip. “Like, what stuff? Mom always says they get everything they need.”

Stiles thinks back to what Lydia had said. “Everything they _need_ , yeah. Have you ever gone through your period without tampon?”

“What? Yuck, no.”

Stiles just gives her a look.

“They don’t get _tampons_?” Allison asks, aghast.

“They don’t get tampons. They don’t get painkillers – Mrs. Mendoza has arthritis and she _cries_ when I bring her Tylenol.” This is true. Stiles has made friends with more than the Hale pack. Some of the humans in town are still sympathetic to the supernatural creatures, and they help Stiles keep track of everyone. “They get toothpaste but they don’t get floss. How about sunscreen? A lot of these people do manual labor outside all day. We’ve had two cases of skin cancer in the past six months.”

“How do you know all this?” Allison asks.

“Because I talk to these people, Ally. Because I go on patrols and I talk to people and actually listen to what they have to say.”

“But I thought . . .” Allison looks confused, and a little bit sad. Stiles sympathizes with her. Up until five minutes ago, Allison thought the people in town had everything they needed. She thinks of her family, of the militia, as benevolent providers. She thought they took care of the town. “Do we go short, if you bring them this stuff?”

“No,” Stiles says. “We’ve got more than enough. Gerard hoards things because he doesn’t know what we’ll get or when we’ll get it.” He thinks again of the lies that Gerard tells, of the shipments of supplies that Kate brings back. Is it even remotely possible that all Kate does is drive to a grocery store two towns over? Or some bulk store, where she can buy truckloads of stuff without it seeming bizarre?

If the rest of the world has settled down, did anyone even notice what happened to Beacon Hills? Is there some hapless census taker out there right now, wondering why he can’t get a hold of anyone there? Wouldn’t the IRS notice? It’s questions like that which make Stiles think that there is some truth in Gerard’s lies.

But really, if the war outside was over, if the dust had settled, would anyone think to look for a small town in California? Maybe they were still trying to reassemble the country, and nobody had yet gotten around to an isolated little town that nobody had heard from.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

“Maybe he’s right,” Allison says, drawing Stiles back to the present.

“Maybe he is,” Stiles says. “But I’d rather share what we have now. I’d rather we all go down together than sit on my throne and watch other people suffer in silence.”

Allison’s quiet for a minute. “I won’t tell anyone,” she says, “if you let me go with you next time.”

Stiles blinks. “What? No. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m an Argent, too.” Allison’s chin tilts up in that stubborn expression that Stiles knows there’s no arguing with. “I want to help people. If Grandpa isn’t helping them, then I will.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters. He’ll need to do some prep for this. Reach out to a few people in town, figure out what supplies will work best. “Fine. But it’ll be a few weeks. I just went, obviously, and I can’t do it that often. So just . . . relax, okay? I’ll see what I can do.”

“Okay,” she says. She hesitates, then adds, “I’m glad you’re helping them, Stiles.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” He waits until she’s left the room, then lies back on his bed, drags his pillow over his face, and sighs.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

 

Peter doesn’t anger easily, but by the time Derek has gotten two sentences in to his patient lecture, he’s furious. He’s cold and tired and he hasn’t eaten in almost three days. They hadn’t had a chance to compile their spoils before the raid, and then he had spent most of the next two days making sure Cora had her fill. All he wants is to have some food and then get some sleep, but instead he has to listen to this drivel.

“Hang on a second,” he says, interrupting Derek. “I want to make sure I’m understanding this correctly. We nearly all got killed because Mama’s Boy here didn’t cover his tracks. And your solution for this is to give him a stern look and judge him with your eyebrows?”

Derek scowls. So does Scott, but that doesn’t concern Peter. He doesn’t care what Scott thinks. “How I deal with my betas is none of your business.”

Peter realizes in that moment that he made a mistake. He’s tired and short-tempered and he came at Derek wrong. Derek is always on the defensive, and he’s just gotten his nephew’s back up. “Fair enough,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But I do hope you see my point.”

Derek huffs out a breath. “Scott,” he says, “you _have_ to be more careful. I know that it’s hard to lose your mother. God knows that I know that. But you’re putting her in danger, too.”

Scott’s scowl doesn’t fade, but he does look away, seeming embarrassed. “I do all the things I’m supposed to. I always take different routes, we never meet in the same place twice, I try to make sure I’m not being followed. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“How often do you see her?” Derek asks.

“Every couple of weeks.”

Peter doesn’t need Scott’s thudding heartbeat to tell him that _that’s_ a lie. Derek apparently doesn’t either, because his jaw tightens and crimson starts to seep into his eyes. “Tell me the truth.”

Scott rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Okay, it’s more like twice a week. But I can’t just abandon her. She needs my help, she can’t get to some of the places I can get to, so she doesn’t have access to the water purification tablets and – ”

“You’re giving her our supplies?” Derek asks, and even several of the other betas look affronted at this.

“Only those! We don’t need them as much as a human does – ”

“You know that Stiles risks his _life_ to bring us those supplies, right?” Derek asks, and Peter glances over at him, interested. It wasn’t exactly the part that Peter would have expected him to get hung up on. “Jesus Christ, Scott. If you had _asked_ me, I would have told you what it was and wasn’t okay to bring. I would have _given_ you some of the water tablets – ”

“Oh, well, pardon me for not expecting generosity from you,” Scott snaps back, “since every other time my mother comes up, you treat me like I’m the asshole for wanting to be able to help her.”

Peter half-expects Derek to blow his stack, but instead his nephew visibly stops and takes a deep breath, calming down. “Look,” he says, “I know that your mother is important to you. And I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk about it in the past. We’re all in this together, and we need to cooperate. But you have to be more careful.”

“We’re all fine, though,” Scott says. “Derek, we’re fine. Stiles warned us about the raid.”

“Damn it, Scott, we can’t rely on that,” Derek says. “Stiles only barely made it here in time. That might not always happen. And the more risks he takes, the more likely it is that he’ll get caught, and then nobody will be warning us about anything. So if you can agree to visit your mother once a week, and only bring her what I say is okay, then we can deal with this and move forward from here. But if you – ”

“That’s your solution?” Peter speaks up from his corner. “Derek, that’s not acceptable. He’s risking all our lives – including Stiles’,” he adds, since Derek seems to have a bee in his bonnet about that. “Melissa McCall is an adult woman who made her own choices. I seem to recall specifically telling her when we took Scott in that their contact would _have_ to be minimal, for everyone’s safety.”

Scott’s growling, but Derek stays calm. “It’s his mother,” he says.

“Yeah, but you know what, it’s not fair.” Surprisingly, it’s Boyd who speaks up. “I cut off contact with my entire family. So did Erica. Lydia hasn’t seen her mother in months. We all have to follow the rules. What makes Scott so special, that he doesn’t?”

“The difference is that my mother had to go underground,” Scott says. “Your families are all living mundane lives, they get supplies from the Argents like everybody else because the Argents think you guys just ran away or got killed or something. My mother had to give that up because Gerard thought she might know where I’d gone.”

The betas look at each other, uncertain. Scott has a point, but so does Boyd.

“Bend the rules for Scott, and how long will it be before the others think you can bend them for them, too,” Peter says. “They won’t tell you. They’ll just sneak away. And sooner or later we’ll be caught. And I for one am not going to die for Scott’s motherly love.”

Derek takes another deep breath. “This pack,” he says, “this _family_ , is all we have. If anyone has a problem with me letting Scott help his mother, speak up now and we’ll deal with it.”

Uneasy silence falls.

“We stick together,” Derek says. “It’s safest for everyone. Scott, one visit per week, and you don’t go alone anymore. Someone will go with you to watch from high ground and make sure neither of you are followed in or out. Is that clear?”

“Yeah,” Scott says.

“Derek, this is _not acceptable_ ,” Peter says, unable to fathom how he’s losing this argument.

Derek stays surprisingly calm. “Peter, if I forbid him from seeing his mother, it won’t make a difference. He’ll do it anyway. He’s pretty much proven that. If he’s willing to abide by reasonable limits to keep everyone safe, then I don’t see where the problem is.”

“A beta who won’t follow orders is a beta not worth having,” Peter says.

“This from _you_?” Derek asks, eyebrows arching. “When the hell have you ever listened to anything I say?”

“I’m not your beta,” Peter says. “I’m your uncle. And I’ve stayed with you and this pack and risked my own skin because of that. But I won’t sit here and let you risk my life because you develop a soft spot at all the wrong times.”

“Then leave,” Scott says, scowling at him. “We don’t need you anymore. We have Stiles now.”

Peter looks straight at Derek and says, “You’re going to get all of these kids killed without me. And you know that.”

Derek’s jaw tightens. “If you have a problem with how I run my pack, the door’s to your left.”

Peter snarls despite himself. “Fine,” he says. “Just don’t expect me to cry at your funeral.”

He turns and walks out the door without another word.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Hey, Dr. Deaton,” Stiles says, jogging through the former veterinarian’s door. “Brought you some supplies,” he adds, setting his bag down. It’s not anything particularly exciting. Gauze, syringes, some rubbing alcohol. But for one of Beacon Hills’ only remaining doctors, it’s invaluable. Almost everybody comes to him when they need medical help, and it’s the reason that nobody has ratted him out for being a Druid. Even the most fervent supporter of the militia knows that they don’t provide much in the way of medical care. Unless you’ve been mauled by a werewolf, they’re not much help on that front.

Deaton keeps careful track of all the supernatural creatures in Beacon Hills, and he treats them, too, when they need it. They move around so much that Stiles can’t keep track of all of them to bring supplies without his help. And Deaton helps with some other things on occasion, too.

“Thank you, Stiles,” Deaton says, accepting the bag. “What are the odds you can get me some antibiotics next time? Lucy Welch keeps getting ear infections and there’s only so much I can do for her. If her fever spikes much higher, there could be permanent damage.”

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” Stiles says. “I’m gonna need a favor in return,” he adds, and Deaton raises an eyebrow. “So, Allison wants to come with me on my next supply run.”

“Oh dear,” Deaton says, as reserved as ever.

“Yeah. She’s got a bee in her bonnet now about how maybe, just maybe, her family aren’t the benevolent caretakers she thought they were. So she wants to help me out. But I don’t think she’d take very well to the people I _actually_ smuggle supplies to. So can you find some poor, pathetic townfolk who need some stuff, tell me what it is, and then tell them to act really grateful when I show up, like it happens all the time?”

Deaton gives a quiet snort. “I think I can arrange something of that nature, yes.”

“Great. I’ll be back in a couple days with those antibiotics.” Stiles hops off the counter.

“But I don’t think it’s going to work out quite the way you think it will,” Deaton adds.

“Why not?”

“Is your sister anything like you?”

Stiles frowns. “Well, I guess. How exactly do you mean it?”

“is she stubborn in all the wrong ways and far too smart for her own good?”

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his hair. “Uh, yeah, I guess it could be put that way.”

“Then she’s not going to be satisfied with one supply run,” Deaton says. “And she won’t think like you. She won’t be content sneaking around in the shadows. She’s going to tell her parents and try to make the Argent family into what she wants it to be. Now, how will that play out in the long run? I don’t know. But it’s going to wreak havoc on the way you’ve been doing things.”

“One thing at a time,” Stiles says with a sigh. But he has to admit that Dr. Deaton has a point. That sounds exactly like what Allison will do. She can be headstrong, but she has a genuinely good heart. She’ll want to help, but she _won’t_ want to believe that Gerard and Kate are well aware of the situation. She won’t want to believe that Gerard is far happier with the townspeople cringing, starving, subjugated.

If she tries to convince them, they’ll want to know where she got the idea. And if she tells them that Stiles steals supplies, it won’t take long for them to connect the dots between the missing supplies and the failed raids. Stiles doesn’t know what she’ll do with that. He doesn’t want Allison to know about the fact that he helps werewolves because he honestly has no idea how she’ll react.

“Where are the Hales at these days?” he asks, shouldering his now mostly empty bag. He’s got a few things for them tucked away in there, but most of what he had brought on this trip was for Deaton.

Deaton pushes aside the books that are carefully stacked on his table to consult a map. Stiles has seen this several times and is always fascinated by it. Deaton has assured him that nobody will be able to see the map without knowing how to work the magic, although Stiles is always a little nervous about so much intelligence being kept in one place. He was equally startled to find that he could access the map himself, now that Deaton had given him permission – something about him having a ‘spark’. He wonders if just a spark would qualify him as supernatural in Gerard’s books, but it’s something better not contemplated. “Looks like they’re holed up in an abandoned bank on First Street right now.”

Stiles frowns. “That’s an odd place for them to be.”

“Mm. Well, the Walcotts – the wendigo family, you know them? – they’ve taken over a lot of the warehouse district. I think Derek wants to stay away from them as much as possible. They’ve had a tiff or two lately.”

“Got it.” Stiles glances at the map one more time before heading for the door. “See you later,” he says.

He ducks two patrols but makes it to the bank well before sundown. As such, only a couple people are there: Derek, Erica, and Boyd. The rest are still out scrounging for dinner or supplies. “Hear you’ve had some trouble with the Walcotts,” he says.

“Yeah,” Derek says, scowling in greeting. “They pushed us out of district five.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip. “If they’re that much of a problem for you, I could always drop a tip about their current location. Let Kate and her goon squad take care of the problem.”

“No,” Derek says. “They might do that to us, but . . . it’s not the sort of thing I want to do.”

“Okay.” Stiles drops it. “Couldn’t bring a lot today because I had to bring some stuff to Deaton’s clinic, but I have . . .” He rummages around. “Two boxes of oatmeal mix, a handful of firestarters, a box of condoms – ”

“Thank the sweet baby Jesus!” Erica says, snatching them out of his hand. She grabs Boyd and says to Derek, “We’re busy. We don’t have to take watch tonight. Bye!” With that, she drags Boyd out of the vault.

“ – and a bag of coffee to keep Peter from getting too cranky,” Stiles finishes, without missing a beat. He sees Derek’s face tighten. “What?”

“Peter’s fucked off somewhere,” Derek says. “He got pissed when I wouldn’t kick Scott out of the pack for sneaking off to see his mother.”

Stiles shrugs. “Hang onto it. He’ll be back.”

“I don’t know if he will be,” Derek says.

“Well, if I run into him, I’ll tell him that you have his coffee, and we’ll see if he shows up,” Stiles says. Derek’s face cracks into a reluctant smile. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried that . . . I’m doing everything all wrong.” Derek turns away, shoving a hand through his hair. “I used to run a lot of my plans past Peter. It felt weird . . . settling down here to avoid conflict with the Walcotts, without talking to him about it first. The pack doesn’t like it here, there aren’t a lot of windows, but I thought it might be secure. I know he’s right about Scott. I know that a beta who doesn’t listen is a beta not worth having. But at the same time, he’s _wrong_ about Scott. Because Scott has so much heart. He holds the others together in a way that, that I can’t.”

“Hey,” Stiles says quietly. He slides his hand around Derek’s forearm without thinking, and Derek turns to look at him, startled. “Peter’s smart, yeah. But you’re smart, too. You know why you need Scott because you understand people. You understand _your_ people. Peter understands _my_ people. Or, you know, the Argents. I don’t really count as one anymore.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Derek says. Surprisingly, he’s not pulling away.

“Peter understands my people, but I understand them, too,” Stiles says. “And I bet Lydia and Malia do. You don’t have to make every decision by yourself. Just because you’re the alpha, doesn’t mean that you can’t talk to the others, make decisions together. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”

“I guess not,” Derek says.

Stiles squeezes his wrist, then drops his hand. “Don’t stay here,” he says, and Derek gives him a look with arched eyebrows. “It’s secure, but almost in a bad way. You have no escape routes. If they get the jump on you, you’ll be backed to a wall.”

Derek lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe that’s what was bothering me about this place.”

“And don’t worry about Peter,” Stiles says. “I’m five hundred percent sure that he can take care of himself.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter regrets his decision within twelve hours, but he’s too proud to admit it. Sure, he can survive on his own. He survived on his own for years. But he forgot how exhausting it is. How you can never get a decent moment’s rest. Every hour of sleep is peppered with moments of wakefulness, of constantly being on guard.

It sucks, is the long and the short of it. And more than anything, he wants to just curl up in a safe corner and sleep for ten hours. But there are no safe corners. Not when there isn’t anyone who can watch his back. Some food would be nice, too. He still hasn’t had a square meal. That’s pretty common in the winter, but it isn’t something he enjoys.

He’s dozing in the library when he hears the door open. The familiar heartbeat, the familiar step. The familiar _scent_. It makes his mouth water, but he won’t admit it. He stays curled up where he is.

“Peter?” Chris’ voice says.

Peter snarls underneath his breath, but pries himself out of his corner and creeps up to the railing. He hopes he doesn’t sound as bad as he thinks he does as he rasps out, ”What do you want?”

“Just to talk.” Chris frowns up at him. “Jesus Christ.”

Peter glances around, but then realizes that the expletive refers to him. He had stayed in the shadows last time, and Chris had never gotten a good look at him. Now he can, and Peter’s joke about the years being kind is being turned on its head.

He knows he looks like shit. Who wouldn’t? It’s probably worse now than it would have been a week previous. The days on his own have taken a toll on him. But the years have been worse. His hair is too long now, coming down just past his chin, and there’s an accumulation of scruff on his chin and cheeks. He’s dressed in clothes that are way past ragged. He’s at least fifty pounds thinner than he had been the last time Chris had seen him. You can’t see it through his clothes, but it’s there in his cheekbones and his sunken eyes.

Chris is staring, and Peter finds that frankly insulting. Does Chris think that he’s been living large all these years, that he’s somehow above poverty and starvation? Peter hops over the balcony and lands in front of Chris. He spins in a slow circle so Chris can get a good look. “See anything you like, Christopher?”

He can’t quite identify Chris’ expression. Is it pity? Loathing? Admiration? The question is answered a minute later when Chris holds out a thermos. Peter can smell the coffee, and it makes his stomach growl. But his mouth tightens and he snarls despite himself. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Chris says. “It’s a down payment. I need another clue.”

Peter gives him a look, but can’t quite bring himself to refuse. He grabs the thermos out of Chris’ hand and takes a swig. The coffee is still hot, and it sends a rush of warmth through him that he savors. “Couldn’t figure it out, hm?”

“It turns out that cold cases are a little hard to solve when all you’ve got to go on is a twelve year old’s attitude,” Chris says.

“I gave you far more than that,” Peter says. “It’s not my fault if you didn’t realize it.”

Chris sighs. “When he was twelve, Stiles had some trouble from the other kids about being an orphan, being adopted. It upset him, and I think it was the first time he’d really had to think about what happened to his parents. It sent him into a spiral, but he pulled out of it.”

“Mm hm,” Peter says, clutching the coffee and eyeing Chris suspiciously. “You couldn’t have brought me a cheeseburger?”

“We don’t get a lot of beef.”

“Pardon me if I don’t feel sorry for you.”

Chris sighs. It’s clear that he’s trying to think of a way to get Peter to open up to him. “At first I wondered if it had something to do with your family. That was the year before. But I couldn’t make a connection.”

“Funny,” Peter says. “I’ve wondered myself if there is one. If Talia was targeted because she knew something about who killed the Stilinskis.”

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Chris says.

“No, of course not,” Peter says. “It was simply your psychotic sister being psychotic. And yet again, you’ve missed the clue I’ve given you.”

“Damn it, Peter - ” Chris rakes a hand through his hair. “You know that I’m not good at this sort of thing.”

“True,” Peter says. “You’ve always been so straightforward. You don’t think around corners. As usual, I’ll have to spell it out for you. Talia was _not_ targeted because she knew something about who murdered the Stilinskis. I simply wondered for some time if she might have been. So what does that tell you?”

There’s a moment of silence while Chris actually thinks about it. “Did she? Know something?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you thought she might have.”

“Talia was one of the alphas in the region. She talked to everyone, she knew almost as much about what was going on as I did. And she had always been adamant that the Stilinskis had _not_ been killed by a Beacon Hills werewolf, so I thought maybe she had an idea about who it might have been.”

“But if she did, why didn’t she say anything?”

Peter arches his eyebrows at Chris.

“Oh. That’s the clue.” Chris chews on this for a minute. “Whoever it was, it was someone that Talia couldn’t touch. Which means it must have been someone very important, or protected in some way.”

Peter sips his coffee. “There’s your clue. Now get out.”

“Do you actually _know_ this or was it just something you had suspected?” Chris asks.

“Bring me something better than coffee next time, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

Chris rubs a hand over his face. “Look, Peter, I know that you’re angry. But I don’t - ”

“I’m not angry,” Peter says. “I thought I was, for a long time. But then I realized that I wasn’t. That what hurt most wasn’t even the fact that I lost my family. It was that you chose your family over me.” He sits down on the edge of a table and watches Chris’ expressions chase each other across his face. “I wouldn’t have expected it either. That it would sting like that. But it did.”

“Peter, I didn’t choose my family over you,” Chris says. “I just thought your family was safer here than they would be outside of Beacon Hills. I was wrong, obviously, but I did what I thought was best.”

“I didn’t say you loved them more than me,” Peter says. “Just that you chose them. You chose to believe Gerard’s lies about the outside world over what I told you, and now my family is dead. But I’m not angry, Chris. I don’t hate you. I’m just tired.” He turns away and starts towards the door. “Don’t come here again, Chris. I won’t be here.”

He leaves the library and gives an automatic shiver. It’s night, now, and the temperature is dropping. There’s still a few inches of coffee left, and he downs it in two swallows before dropping the thermos on the ground and walking away. Strangely, he only feels hungrier with it stirring his stomach. He needs to sleep, and he’s done, so done, with all of this. He’s past the point of pride. If Scott can run away and come crawling back, so can he.

He follows his nose out to an old distillery on the edge of town. The walls are cracked and pitted with age, and the smell is musty and unappealing. He senses movement up high, and approves. Someone has seen him coming. Nobody challenges him as he moves into the main room. Derek is sitting by a fire, and he looks up as Peter comes in.

“Uncle Peter,” he says. “Come sit over here where it’s warm.”

Peter nods and does so. Derek hands him a bowl of canned stew and he starts wolfing it down. A few minutes later, his stomach is no longer growling. “Watches?” he mumbles.

“Scott and Isaac are on lookout,” Derek says.

Peter nods in approval. He curls up and goes to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

 

“Who kicked your puppy?” is how Kate greets Chris when he comes into her office, and he gives her a dirty look despite himself. He’s tired, and grumpy, and he doesn’t want to deal with Kate’s general attitude. She sees his face and lifts her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. What’s up?”

Chris sinks into a chair and tries to sort out his thoughts. He’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t even particularly want to talk to Kate, but feels like he has to talk to somebody. Seeing Peter had shaken him, and he can’t really explain why. It makes sense that Peter would have been just as affected by the war as anyone else. But somehow, in Chris’ mind, he still looked exactly the same. Peter was smart, cunning, strong – shouldn’t he have carved out a decent place for himself in this new world?

Instead he was gaunt, weak, and starving. Chris hadn’t missed the way Peter’s hands had trembled when he had reached for the thermos full of coffee. He hadn’t missed the dark circles underneath his eyes, the way he continuously checked his surroundings like he was wary of sudden change. Chris had met someone once who had had the same look, after a lengthy stint as a prisoner of war. It was the look of someone who was constantly standing on quicksand.

It’s not that he hasn’t seen the same look on other people in town, other monsters they’ve captured. But it’s especially jarring on Peter, who in his mind’s eye is still so confident and polished. Even two days before his family had been killed, after the world had gone to hell, he had been a little rumpled but still very much himself. This Peter seems like a shadow of his former self.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the ‘hints’ that Peter had given him. Peter might be a shadow physically, but mentally he doesn’t seem to have dulled a bit. Peter is taunting him, possibly lying to him, and definitely has some reason for helping him that Chris hasn’t figured out yet.

There aren’t a lot of people that Talia Hale would have considered untouchable. The other alphas in the region, maybe, but they had all been ruled out at the time. There were some other monsters, but everyone seemed positive it was a werewolf attack. And Chris, who had been so absorbed with Stiles, hadn’t thought to ask why. The original case files are probably long gone. He has no access to any of the media that came out at the time.

But Peter had given him something else. “I gave you far more than that,” the werewolf had said. Somewhere in his taunts and his snark, there was a clue that Chris was missing, a clue that actually _would_ mean something to him.

“Hello, Chris, earth to Chris,” Kate says. “Are you just going to sit at my desk and sulk all day?”

“Sorry,” Chris says. “I was thinking about the Stilinski murder. I’m a shit detective, you know that? Give me a werewolf to track or a building to break into and I’m your man. Putting puzzle pieces together, it’s not my forte.” He shakes his head. “Any leads on the mole?”

“No, and Dad is _pissed_ ,” Kate says. “A few nights ago we had a _great_ lead on the Hale pack, one of his stooges had seen that McCall kid go into an old building, but they just up and vanished. And we know they were there, because a bunch of stuff was still there, so whatever warning they got was pretty last minute. They didn’t even grab the food they’d managed to scrape up.”

Chris thinks of Peter’s shaking hands. “But you have no idea who could have tipped them off?”

“Nope. On the upside, you’re in the clear. The tip came in while you were doing the advanced marksman class, and half a dozen guys say you were in their sight from the minute the tip came in until long after the team found an empty warehouse. Poor Dad, he really wanted it to be you,” she adds cheerfully.

“Thanks, Kate,” Chris says. “That’s really comforting.”

Kate shrugs, undeterred. “Anyway, we’ll figure it out, but it’s going to be an enormous pain in the ass. He wants me to start putting teams together for fake raids, and we’re going to have to spread a bunch of false info among the troops, and see who bites. So, you know, that’ll be fun.”

“Okay. Keep me posted if I can help out at all.”

“Will do,” Kate says. She sets down her ledger and says, “Look, Chris. About the thing with the Stilinskis. Just let it go. There was nothing to go on then, and there sure as hell won’t be anything to go on now. Have you actually talked to Stiles about what you’re doing? Are you sure he wants you to do this?”

“No,” Chris admits. He thinks again of what Peter had said. Was that the hidden clue? Why is Peter so sure that Stiles would prefer to leave the deaths of his parents a decade in the past? Peter doesn’t even _know_ Stiles. As far as Chris knows, they’ve never met. He kept the two parts of his life as separated as possible, especially as the world had spiraled into chaos.

“Maybe you should talk to him about it,” Kate says. “You know, before you start ripping off old scabs.”

“Probably,” Chris says. He stands up to go. “Thanks, Kate. I’ll talk to you later.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles steals what he’s going to need for the supply run with Allison in dribs and drabs. He doesn’t want her knowing exactly how he gets things, and fortunately, she doesn’t ask. He hands her a duffel bag and says, “If you’re coming, you might as well carry some stuff. I can handle more that way.”

She accepts it without complaint. It’s just now dusk. He normally does supply runs at night, but this is hardly a normal supply run. But his parents think that he’s on a date with Heather, and that Allison is doubling with them with some kid named Brad, who Stiles barely knows. Both Heather and Brad have been bribed to keep their mouths shut about this.

Stiles shows her to the edge of the complex and explains how to time their crossing with the lights and the patrols. She has no problem climbing over the two fences. She might not be in the militia, but she’s done gymnastics and is well-trained in self-defense. They hit the streets and Stiles heads to Deaton’s. Allison looks around the empty streets. “It’s so much quieter at night,” she says.

“Yeah, nobody wants to be out at night,” Stiles says. “That’s when the things under the bed come out.”

Allison shivers a little.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe with me,” Stiles says, and she doesn’t question. A few minutes later, he’s letting them through the back door of the clinic. Just from the low murmur of noise, he can tell that Deaton has done his part and gathered some of the townspeople he needs. “Hey, Dr. D,” he says. “This is my sister, Allison. Allison, Dr. Deaton. He’s kind of a combination pediatrician slash veterinarian for the town.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Allison,” Deaton says, with a warm smile.

Stiles lets out a breath and sets down his bag. “Okay. Got those antibiotics you needed,” he says, “and the disinfectant.”

Allison stares between the two of them. “You don’t get disinfectant?” she asks. “How do you even do sterile procedure?”

Deaton’s smile doesn’t waver, and his tone is patient. “I do get some, Allison, but nowhere near enough. It’s barely enough to keep my clinic clean, let alone my tools.”

“What . . . what sort of stuff do you do here?” she asks, a little reluctant, like she’s not sure she wants to know.

“Well, any major trauma would go up to the base,” he says. “But today, for example, I cut away a growth that was probably skin cancer, and gave IV fluids to someone who was sick with vomiting and getting dehydrated. Tomorrow, now that I have what I need, I’m doing a procedure on a little girl with chronic ear infections, to prevent deafness. Oh, that reminds me, Stiles – did you get any Plan B?”

“Not as much as you would like,” Stiles says, taking out a little box and giving it a rattle.

“What’s that for?” Allison asks.

“It’s emergency birth control,” Stiles tells her. “They can’t get the usual birth control pills with enough regularity that they can count on them to be reliable, so Plan B is a popular way of preventing pregnancy. That and condoms are really the only things they get.”

“Can’t they just . . . not have sex?” Allison asks, her forehead creasing.

“Can they? Sure. Is it fair to make them? Not in my opinion.” Stiles lets out a breath and tries to rein in his temper. “Time’s a wasting,” he says, and heads out into the clinic’s waiting room, where about a dozen people have gathered, both known and unknown to him. He gives poor Mrs. Mendoza an industrial strength sized bottle of Tylenol. There are diapers and baby wipes for the families with babies. Baking soda for people who have to work outside. “To prevent trench foot,” Stiles tells his sister, who looks blank, and doesn’t offer more explanation.

Everyone is grateful, even the people he’s never met before, and they give him hugs and one woman pushes a tin of cookies on him which he reluctantly accepts, thinking that he’ll hide it somewhere and then give it to the Hale pack. Allison moves around the crowd, talking to people, hearing their stories. More than once, Stiles hears someone say, “And I know that the militia needs supplies, that they can’t just throw surplus at us, but we need these things too.” One woman is tearfully talking about how her fussy baby won’t breastfeed well and she doesn’t know what to do since the militia never brings in formula.

All in all, it’s a rousing success, but Stiles watches these desperate people and feels an uneasy stirring in his stomach. He’s going to have to find a way to keep bringing supplies to them, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to do that.

And, of course, as soon as they’ve left Deaton’s, Allison is talking about telling her mother that the next supply run needs to include formula. Stiles stops walking, and she turns to him with a questioning expression. “Allison,” he says slowly, aware that he has to be careful, that using the words ‘you can’t’ are only going to add fuel to the fire. “Do you have any comprehension of what will happen to me if Gerard finds out I’m doing this?”

Allison’s mouth tightens. “Look, he’ll be mad, I know, but he won’t – ”

“Yes, he will,” Stiles says. He rakes both hands through his hair and says, “Whatever the second half of that sentence is going to be, I guarantee you that he will. I need you to understand that Gerard knows _exactly_ how these people live. That he _completely_ understands their desperation. That he _wants_ them to be desperate. Because if they aren’t desperate, they won’t care about his little rewards program, and they won’t give him tips about the supernatural creatures he’s still trying to hunt down.”

“There must be a better way to do that!” Allison protests.

“There are absolutely better ways to do that but Gerard doesn’t care,” Stiles says. Allison opens her mouth and he interrupts her before she can get out the first syllable. “Gerard _doesn’t care_. Literally the only thing that Gerard cares about is how many monsters he can kill. He doesn’t care about how much the townspeople suffer. Hell, he doesn’t even care about how much the militia suffers. And if you try to rally his sympathy, it’s going to get you precisely _nowhere_. And if he finds out what I’ve been doing, he’ll – ” Stiles stops and takes a breath. “I don’t know that he’d have me hanged for treason, but – ”

“Hanged!” Allison blurts out, unable to help it.

“Come on, Ally, I know that _you_ know people have been executed under his regime,” Stiles says. “Do you know why they get hanged? It’s partly so he doesn’t have to waste the bullets. But it’s also because it makes a fucking spectacle, and that’s what he wants. Don’t you understand the things he does, to keep this town under his thumb? The way he uses propaganda to make everyone terrified of the supernatural creatures, and make himself look like the hero? The way people don’t even dare talk shit about him in _private_ , let alone in public, lest they get overheard, reported, and punished? As long as the people here are more afraid of werewolves than they are pissed at the fact that Gerard took their lives away from them, then the fact that one mom was crying over a kid who won’t breastfeed doesn’t mean jack shit!”

“Then . . .” Allison’s face crumples. “What do we do?”

“We keep helping the people we can,” Stiles says, and turns away. “And we try not to think too hard about the ones we can’t.”

He starts walking again. After a few moments, Allison jogs up beside him. “I hate that answer.”

Stiles shrugs.

Allison takes a deep breath. “What if I made sure he didn’t find out about it from you? Like, what if I said one of the girls that I see in town told me about it?”

“Mm hm. And when he asks Mom to confirm?”

“Oh, come on, Mom doesn’t . . .” Allison’s voice trails off as she realizes that her mother _does_ , in fact, stay with her the entire time she’s in town, and certainly does listen, and almost definitely would catch her in the lie. They walk in silence for a few minutes. “I don’t get why Grandpa is such a jerk to you,” she finally says.

Stiles isn’t about to volunteer to talk about _that_. “Because I’m not his grandson.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Not in his opinion. Gerard is the guy who would support the male lion for killing all the cubs that aren’t his. He doesn’t get why Dad adopted me. So in his opinion I’m just an obnoxious teenager who hangs around and gets into trouble. He’d love to have an excuse to get rid of me. He might not execute me, but he’d kick me out. Exile me to the lower districts, or just fling me out of the valley on a trebuchet.”

Allison giggles despite herself. “That’d be a sight to see.”

“I might actually enjoy that.” Stiles shakes his head. “Come on, let’s get home before it gets any later.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stumbling upon the abandoned distillery was a stroke of luck, and things seem to settle down for a few days. Derek has everyone on double watches, because he doesn’t want anyone to snatch their new real estate. The pack grumbles, because it’s cold outside and they’d rather be curled up by the banked fire, nestled into a pile for warmth. Derek just reminds them that they’ll be colder if they’re dead.

Peter’s been quiet for the past few days. Derek would suspect that he’s up to something, but really he thinks his uncle just doesn’t want to talk about how he swallowed his pride. When the others had realized he was back, Scott had started to say something, and Derek had chopped him off at the knees. “After all the times you’ve left and then come back, you don’t get to say anything to him,” he said, and Scott had lowered his eyes and agreed. Peter seemed a little surprised that Derek had come to his defense, but he didn’t say anything about it.

“Derek! Derek!” Cora comes scampering into the distillery, a huge smile on her face. “Guess what we’ve got!”

Derek, who had practically fallen off the bar he was using to do his chin-ups, looks over. “What?”

“Eggs!” Cora cheers.

“Eggs?” Derek asks, eyes going wide.

“Lydia and I were scrounging around and then she started screaming, and she said Mrs. Ford had died – she was, like, ninety so that’s probably not a huge surprise – so we trucked on over there and raided her place. She kept her own chickens and she had two! Dozen! Fucking! Eggs!”

Derek takes a brief moment to contemplate what scavengers they’ve become and then decides he doesn’t care. As long as they’re not eating Mrs. Ford herself, he figures they’re probably okay. Someone else will probably get to that soon enough, but that’s not his problem. “Well, hot damn,” he says. “Anything else good?”

“Mostly nonperishables, like some canned stuff and some crackers, but she had a bag of apples and – ooh! Corn bread! It looked like she had just made it a couple days ago and hadn’t finished it yet. She even had some spices that she hadn’t used, like cinnamon and stuff.”

Derek looks up, seeing a few of the others coming in, hauling a bunch of blankets and pillows. “You stole those, too?”

“She wasn’t using them anymore,” Isaac says with a shrug.

“True, but you know we won’t be able to take them the next time we move,” Derek says.

“Who says we’re going to need to move again?” Scott says. “Now that Stiles can warn us if there’s going to be a raid, we might as well stay here. We’ve got good digs here.”

Derek feels a headache coming on. After a moment, he decides to postpone the inevitable ‘we can’t rely on Stiles to keep us safe’ discussion for after he’s had some of the spoils. Even if they move in a week – which they will – for that week they’ll have blankets and pillows.

Boyd and Scott go get water and they boil the eggs. Malia asks if they can have the chickens, too, but Derek says no. Roasting a chicken on a spit over the fire would be wonderful, and it would smell wonderful, and everyone within ten miles would be on their doorstep wanting a share. They don’t get chicken.

But they do get eggs, and there’s even salt and pepper for them, along with cornbread and apples with a bit of cinnamon and there’s enough for everyone to eat until they’re full. Stiles pokes his head in to bring them the new patrol schedule, and he allows himself to be drawn in for a little while. He hasn’t had cinnamon in ages, he says – most of what Kate brings in pretty basic stuff – so they persuade him to eat half of an apple.

“I should really go,” he says, without moving from their circle. “Eventually I’m going to snarl at my grandfather and he’s gonna figure out I’ve been hanging out with a pack.”

“Then go,” Derek says, just bordering on rude. He doesn’t know why the subtle rejection that isn’t even a rejection bothers him so much.

“I will, I just . . . I like it here,” Stiles says in a low murmur. Derek has to fight down the urge to tackle him and rub his scent all over him. He’s had that urge every time Stiles has showed up since their night on the roof together. When Stiles had taken his arm in the bank vault, he nearly hadn’t been able to control it.

Stiles leaves about five minutes later. Cora banks the fire and they arrange the pillows and blankets into a pile and everyone is huddled together and Derek is starting to feel a little drowsy. He shakes himself awake. “Watches,” he says, and everyone groans. “Peter and I will take the first one. Malia, it’s your turn for a night off, so Isaac and Scott, second, Erica and Boyd, third, Cora and Lydia, last.”

“Come on,” Isaac says. “We’re safe here. Do we have to still do watches at all? Let alone _double_ watches?”

“To be honest, I’m more worried that people will have seen you at Mrs. Ford’s and decide to come see what we got and help themselves,” Derek says, “or that someone tailed one of you back here and will tip off the militia.”

“But Stiles will warn us if – ”

“We’re done talking about this,” Derek says. “Double watches. I don’t care if you like it or if you don’t. Feel free to find somewhere else to sleep if you don’t want to do your part.”

The betas go into a sulky silence. Or, well, silence. Some of them are sulking more than others. Derek leaves them in a pile and climbs up to the roof. But he brings one of the blankets with him, because it really _is_ cold. Peter joins him a moment later.

“What’s on your mind, nephew?” Peter’s voice is deceptively casual. He knows that Derek has assigned them watch together so they have a chance to talk. He usually puts him with Cora, because if there’s anything that Derek trusts his uncle to do, it’s protect Cora. From the way Peter sits down, knees drawn up loosely, arms resting on them, he looks somewhat defensive. Derek guesses that Peter thinks he’s about to broach his absence, and doesn’t want to talk about it, but he has no intention of doing so.

“It’s about Stiles,” Derek says.

“Mm hm,” Peter says, and shakes his head. “We can’t stay here, even with – ”

“I know,” Derek says. “That’s not it. We’ll move in a week like we always do, blankets or no blankets. And we’ll keep doing double watches. It’s just about . . . Stiles.” He feels his cheeks start to flush. “Lately, I, uh . . . when he shows up, I have trouble . . . I feel like . . .”

“Spit it out, Derek,” Peter says, arching an eyebrow at him.

“I just want to grab him and rub my scent all over him,” Derek blurts out. He sees Peter’s jaw tighten and thinks he’s angry, but then he realizes that Peter’s trying not to laugh. “It’s not funny. That – that can’t be _normal_ , I mean – ”

“No, it’s quite normal,” Peter interrupts. “It’s mating instincts.”

“But I’ve been – with – people before,” Derek says, trying not to think about it too much. He doesn’t want Peter asking questions about Kate. He doesn’t want _anyone_ asking questions about Kate. “It wasn’t like this. And don’t give me some bullshit about, you know, only having one true mate.”

“Nothing like that,” Peter says. “It’s that you weren’t an alpha then. Being an alpha gives you, shall we say, a possessive streak. It makes you want to mark and claim your mate in a much more visceral, physical way than a beta does. In the same way that you mark and claim your territory.”

“I don’t think Stiles would be happy if I pissed on him,” Derek growls, trying to get over the embarrassment.

“Some people are into that, you know,” Peter says, and laughs when Derek glowers at him. “But for the sake of your peace of mind, it is quite normal for you to feel that way. I even think I know why it’s happening now, rather than before – although Stiles has been meeting with us and bringing us supplies for months, I think the night of the raid might be the first time you actually touched him. You got your scent all over him, and now it’s gone, so every time you see him, you want to mark him again.”

“Okay,” Derek says, and huffs out a breath. “What do I do about it?”

Peter shrugs. “Well, Erica and Boyd could probably spare you a condom or three – ”

“That’s not – ” Derek knows he’s flushing bright pink. He clears his throat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Peter doesn’t look impressed. “You’re not seriously going to try to tell me that you think Stiles wouldn’t be interested.”

“That’s not it.” Derek tries not to growl. Of course he knows that Stiles is interested. Everyone in the pack knows that Stiles is interested, although by some miracle they don’t bring it up. Probably because they figure Derek would never reciprocate. “It’s just that – it would make things – complicated.”

“That’s your excuse?” Peter gives a dry chuckle. “I know all about complicated relationships with Argents.”

“Are you going to tell me that it was worth it?” Derek asks, his voice a challenge.

Peter shrugs. “At least I have the memories.”

They sit in silence for a long minute.

“I suppose,” Peter finally says, “that I believe in taking what you can, when you can. Sure, it might complicate things. But I don’t like the idea of having regrets. I would always be happier to take a shot and miss the mark than to hold back. But that’s me. That’s not necessarily you.” He stands up. “The question you have to ask yourself is, if everything fell apart tomorrow – would it hurt less because you hadn’t been with him? Or would it hurt more?”

Derek watches him walk away, to take up his watch position at the back of the building, and murmurs, “Thanks, Uncle Peter.”

Not that he really has any idea what to do. But it does give him something to think about.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know anything about the Walcotts beyond "they're wendigoes" so if I get them all wrong I'm sorry. =D

 

Allison is surprised when Dr. Deaton walks into the little café where she’s talking with her friends. She’s also intensely glad of the interruption. Ever since her little foray with Stiles, she’s found hanging out with her two remaining friends unbearable. There’s so much she wants to ask them, and she doesn’t dare. Do they even like her? Do they hang out with her because their parents make them, because nobody wants to cross Gerard? Do they go home and sleep cold and hungry, or are they some of the favored few who get anything they need because they betray other people?

Her mind is gnawing away at it, and she can’t let it go, even though at times she’d love to. And she finds herself watching her mother, being wary of her, and hating it. Does Victoria really listen in on all their conversations? She sits in the corner of the café and sips her tea and reads a book while the girls talk and do each others’ hair or pick clothes out of the hand-me-downs of the adults, as they get older. (The café isn’t really functional; it’s just a building that happens to still be standing. Victoria brings her own tea, and some treats for the girls to share.)

Stiles had seemed so sure that Victoria would be quick to call her out if she tried lying, and Allison hates that. She knows that her mother hasn’t always treated Stiles well – it’s why she thinks of Victoria as _her_ mother, but of Chris as _their_ father. Maybe Stiles is just suspicious of Victoria because of that. Or maybe he’s right.

To be honest, Allison doesn’t even really enjoy her trips into town anymore. Not since Lydia had disappeared. Lydia had been her best friend since she was thirteen, but then she had suddenly stopped coming to the café in the afternoons. It had taken Allison two weeks to find out that Lydia’s nature as a banshee had been exposed and she had had to go underground.

Allison had been devastated – not so much at the news that her best friend was a banshee, but that her best friend had lied to her for years. Lydia had always supported the militia within Allison’s earshot. They had talked about how they could help improve Beacon Hills when they grew up, make it safer for everyone. All while Lydia had been hiding the way she really was.

And Allison could vividly remember her mother’s scathing words when they had found out where Lydia had gone. Naturally, Allison had been upset. Her friend could have been alive or dead and she wouldn’t have even known. The other people in town had turned on Lydia and thrown her to the metaphorical wolves. When Allison mentioned that, Victoria said, “I hope that you weren’t keeping her secret, Allison. Your grandfather would look very poorly on that.”

“No!” Allison protested. “No, I wasn’t, I just . . .” She trailed off. What could she say? She had no idea how she would have reacted if she had found out about Lydia’s supernatural side. A part of her wanted to say that she would have reported it immediately. Supernatural creatures were dangerous. It would have been the right thing to do. But Lydia was her friend, and Allison had a hard time believing that she would have hurt anybody.

The truth was that Allison really didn’t know how she would have reacted, so while she was upset with Lydia for lying to her, she also understood why Lydia had done it. She was conflicted over the whole thing, and her mother’s way of trying to resolve that conflict had been more sharp words. “Don’t weep for her, Allison. She doesn’t deserve your tears.”

Allison wasn’t going to be forgetting that any time soon, even though the weeks of Lydia’s absence had gradually stretched into months.

Either way, she’s both pleased and intrigued when Dr. Deaton walks in. He gives Victoria a warm smile and doesn’t really look in Allison’s direction. That makes sense, given that they’re not supposed to have met. “I was wondering if I could have a word, Mrs. Argent?”

“Certainly,” Victoria says. Her voice is brisk but not unfriendly.

Deaton pulls out a chair and sits down. Allison pretends not to be listening while she braids her friend’s hair. “I was wondering if there was any way that you could talk to your husband or sister-in-law about getting some baby formula included on the next supply run. There’s a mother here who’s having difficulty nursing her baby.”

“I can mention it to him,” Victoria says, making zero promises.

“It would also be helpful if we could some antibiotics,” Deaton says, still calm and smiling. “I know that you keep most of those at the base in case of infected wounds, but there’s a little girl with chronic ear infections who’s getting very difficult to treat.”

“Mm hm,” Victoria says.

Deaton says a few more pleasant things, praises the militia, and thanks her for her time. Then he gets up without once looking at Allison. She’s not entirely sure of what just happened – for one thing, she knows that Stiles already brought him the antibiotics – but then she realizes that Deaton was giving her the opportunity to talk to her parents about it, without giving Stiles away.

She thinks about saying something on the walk home, but then decides against it. Her mother clearly wasn’t happy about having been approached, and she’s just going to shut Allison down if she asks about it. Allison doesn’t need Stiles’ opinion of her mother to tell her that. Chris is a softer target. So she waits until they get home, and she’s doing her chores, peeling potatoes to go with dinner. Chris gets home before Stiles, who’s on patrol.

So she feigns complete innocence, waits until Chris is in the kitchen, filling a glass with water, and says, “Oh, Mom, don’t forget to talk to dad about what that doctor asked for.”

Chris gives his wife a questioning look. Victoria purses her lips in a somewhat sour expression and shakes her head. “I can’t believe he actually accosted me in public for that instead of going through the proper channels.”

“Well, maybe he wanted to make sure it got to the right person,” Allison suggests. “It seemed important.”

“What was it, Vicky?” Chris asks.

More annoyed now, Victoria says, “Something about getting antibiotics with the next supply run.”

“And formula,” Allison says helpfully. She looks at her father and says, “I guess he knows a new mother who’s having trouble breastfeeding. Does that happen?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Chris says. He has a faint frown on his face. “Well, I’ll talk to Kate about it. I’m not sure formula is even made anymore, but we’ll see what she can find. The antibiotics ought to be easy enough. She brings those back all the time.”

“Shouldn’t the townspeople have everything they need?” Allison asks. “I mean, they just fill out the request forms, right?”

“It’s not always quite as simple as that, sweetheart,” Chris says. “Sometimes Kate can’t get everything that people need or want.”

“But if we have antibiotics, why can’t he get them?” Allison asks. “He said there was a sick little girl.”

“Allison, that’s enough,” Victoria says. “Running the militia is far more complicated than you can appreciate. Your aunt Kate knows what she’s doing.”

Allison falls silent and tries not to sulk. It doesn’t help that when Stiles gets home half an hour later, he can clearly tell something’s up, and asks her what’s wrong. Victoria chimes in and says, “She’s being a silly little girl,” and Stiles immediately drops the subject.

It isn’t until much later that night, when Allison is in her bedroom, that there’s a quiet knock and her father comes in. Chris sits down on the edge of the bed and says to her, “Honey, I’ll talk to Kate about trying to get formula. But your mother is right that things are a little more complicated than they seem.”

“Dad, I’m not a child anymore,” Allison says. She puts down her book and looks him in the eye. “Tell me that Grandpa doesn’t hoard supplies to keep the townspeople in need so they’ll help him. Tell me that and mean it.”

Chris sighs. “God, you have such a big heart,” he says, reaching out and pulling Allison against his shoulder. “I love that about you. But you have to understand that catching the supernatural creatures has to be our priority.”

“No, Dad, it doesn’t.” Allison pulls away. “Protecting the townspeople should be our priority. And yes, that means protecting them from the monsters. But it also means making sure that they have enough. You were the one who said to me when I was young, the only reason you ever look in your neighbor’s bowl is to make sure he has enough. Never to make sure that you have more than him.”

“Things got . . .” Chris sighs again. “If I say ‘complicated’, you’re going to smack me, huh?”

“Damn right I will,” Allison says. “We’re supposed to be the good guys here. Remember? I get that Grandpa is all about hunting down the monsters. But are they really hurting people anymore? When was the last time there was actually an incident?”

“Well, since you ask, a few days ago, a group of wendigoes killed and ate an old woman,” Chris says.

Allison deflates. “Oh.”

Chris squeezes her shoulder. “Look, sweetheart – there are things about this war that I don’t like any better than you. And I agree that we should help the people in town as much as we can. But in reality, logistically, there are only so many supplies we can get. Kate _has_ to focus on the basics. She has to make sure she brings in enough to feed everybody.”

“Couldn’t she go more often?” Allison asks hopefully.

“It’s dangerous out there,” Chris says. “The outside world is a war zone. In all reality, we’re lucky she can get as much as she does. But I’ll talk to her about the baby formula. Okay?”

Allison nods. “Okay,” she says, and lets her father draw her into a hug. “Dad?”

“Mm?”

“I miss Lydia.”

Chris rubs his hand up and down her back. “I’m sorry that you lost your friend, Allison. I really am. And I know telling you that it had to be that way doesn’t help. No matter what your mother might say, you have every right to be upset, or angry.”

“I just . . . Lydia would never hurt anyone. She never did hurt anyone. She was my friend for years.”

“I know. But it’s about controlling the instincts. Sooner or later, every supernatural creature loses control.”

“It’s not like Lydia asked to be a banshee.”

“No, of course not. It’s not like wolves ask to be wolves. But that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. And we have to protect ourselves and our people. Right?”

Allison sighs and nods. “Right.”

Chris draws her into a hug. “I know it can be hard. But you can talk to me about anything. Just remember that, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Everyone loves the distillery so much that Peter sort of wants to move out of it early just on general principle. He can tell that it’s irritating Derek, too, although he manages not to say anything about it. It doesn’t help that their arrival at the distillery coincided with a remarkable streak of luck for them. First Mrs. Ford’s death and all the spoils that had come along with their discovery. Then a warm snap that had made their nights more comfortable and signaled that winter might be on the way out. Then Malia had saved a little boy from being hit by one of the militia vehicles, and the grateful parents had given them a basket full of cheese, bread, and preserves. Boyd and Lydia finally got their solar powered battery working, with enough sunlight in a day that they actually were able to have lanterns inside at night.

They’d lived like kings for the last week – or their version of kings, which really meant like normal people. They hadn’t needed to go out foraging, so they’d had time to stick around the distillery and play games and tell stories. It was starting to feel like a safe place, and Peter knows how dangerous that is. After three days, Derek had made everyone go out foraging anyway, saying that just because they had enough now was no excuse to slack off.

They’ve never stayed in one place more than three weeks. Peter would move every week if it was just him, but moving the pack _is_ something of a process, so he’s agreed with Derek’s plan of moving every two weeks. It’s been exactly two weeks since they moved into the distillery. Derek has started laying out the plan of where they’re going to go next, how they’ll split up and what things they’re going to take with them.

Predictably, the betas are dragging their feet. Watching from the rafters, Peter can see that this is going to turn into one of _those_ arguments. Normally they lead to Scott storming off with his chosen few. In this case it’s going to be the opposite, since Scott wants to stay at the distillery. In fact, Scott is talking about inviting more people to stay with them – his mother, of course, but also Boyd’s father and sister, Lydia’s mother, and a handful of children that the obnoxious Druid, Dr. Deaton, looks out for.

“No,” Derek says.

Peter sighs.

“Derek, look around,” Scott says. “We have plenty of room.”

“It’s not about room,” Derek says. “It’s about how many people we can feed, and how many people we can protect. Let’s say Stiles runs through the door with a raid right behind him again. Who’s going to take responsibility for half a dozen kids? You?”

“Sure,” Scott says.

“And when you get your ass killed, that’s going to be okay with you?”

“Well, it _would_ solve some of our problems,” Peter remarks acerbically.

Scott flips him off. “Derek, we have an opportunity here. To – to make a safe haven, to band together for everyone’s protection. Look at what we have here. It’s warm. We have power – only a little, but we have it. We have a water source. Think about what we could do.”

“What we would _do_ is draw attention to ourselves,” Derek says. “Do you seriously think the militia wouldn’t notice? How fucking stupid do you think they are?”

“Even if they did, that wouldn’t mean a disaster,” Scott says.

Peter watches the argument in interest. Scott has Lydia on his side this time, because Lydia thinks with a little more time, she can turn the little bit of moving water into a generator. Cora is waffling, because she wants to side with her brother, but like all of them, she’s in love with the idea of a safe place, of a _home_. So is Isaac.

Erica is on Derek’s side, firmly, because at heart Erica is a girl who looks out for herself, and she’s persuaded Boyd to side with her. Boyd is hesitant, but he doesn’t like the idea of promising safety to his father and his sister when there’s too good a chance that everything will fall apart within a few weeks. Malia is not taking part because she’s on watch, which she was assigned when she made it clear that she doesn’t care how it turns out. Malia isn’t exactly enamored of the concept of ‘home’ after all her years as a coyote.

“You only ever think of yourself!” Scott snaps at Derek.

“I think of the _pack_ ,” Derek snarls at him.

Things are about to get really nasty, and Peter is watching in somewhat amused interest, but then there’s a low whistle. Malia, signaling that someone is approaching. It’s not an alarm, just a warning, so it isn’t the militia.

Peter will give the betas one thing – they might argue, but when danger comes to the door, they move like a well-oiled machine. They’ve got the entrances and exits covered in a matter of moments. Malia drops down through the hole in the ceiling and says in a sour tone, “Walcott.”

“Great.” Derek heads for the door.

“You’re just going to let them in?” Scott asks.

“Yes,” Derek says. “Last time I didn’t, they stood outside shouting taunts, and half the militia nearly found us. Start getting our things together, like we talked about.”

A moment later, two men walked through the door, Andrew Walcott and his son Sean. Peter sees Derek’s jaw tighten, but he doesn’t say anything as they stroll inside like they belong there. “Nice place you’ve got here, Hale,” Andrew says, nodding sagely. “Got yourself a pretty good set up. You weren’t going to keep it all to yourself, were you?”

“Actually, we were just leaving,” Derek says.

Scott gives a low snarl. “You’re just going to let them walk in and take it from us?”

“No,” Derek says, keeping his voice even. “I’m telling the truth. We’ve been here two weeks and it was time for us to move. As I was saying this morning, we’ll split up and meet again in three days. I’ll find us some new digs in the meantime.”

“Well, I hope you don’t mind if we use the place, since you’re not staying,” Andrew says.

“Come on, Der, they already took our warehouse!” Even Cora sounds exasperated.

“We don’t need this place,” Derek says. “It’s not worth the fight.”

“You never think anything is worth the fight,” Isaac says.

Derek’s jaw tightens, but he says, “If you want to stay here and fight a bunch of wendigoes for a distillery that we weren’t going to keep anyway, be my guest. The rest of you, get the things I assigned you this morning, find your partner, and go. I’ll see you in three days.”

“I can’t believe this,” Scott says. “You _know_ we won’t find a better place than this.”

“Scott, it’s done,” Lydia says quietly. “I wanted to stay here too, but we can’t. Even if we could defend the place from the Walcotts . . . it won’t be safe, now that they know we’re here.” What she doesn’t say, but Peter absolutely agrees with, is that the Walcotts will drop a tip to the militia – or at least to a human who will pass it along – to get the Hales evicted and hopefully killed. And even if Scott thinks Stiles could warn them in time, at least he’s smart enough not to bring that up in front of the Walcotts. Instead, he storms off and starts collecting his belongings.

“What’s that?” Sean asks, as Boyd picks up the little generator. “Leave that, it looks cool.”

“Nah, man,” Boyd says, without missing a beat. “We were trying to make a bomb we could throw over the fence but we can’t get the fertilizer.”

“Sucks,” Sean says, and lets it go. Boyd hefts the little device and heads out the back door.

“So can we have our warehouse back now?” Derek asks Andrew Walcott.

Andrew shrugs. “You do whatever you want, Hale.”

Peter jumps down from the rafters and shoulders a bag of supplies. “That warehouse had terrible lighting anyway,” he drawls. “It was so passé. Shall we, Derek?”

Derek nods. He says nothing as he collects his belongings. They leave all the pillows and the blankets and about half the perishables. They couldn’t eat them before they went bad anyway. Whenever they move, they only take enough to last them a couple days.

Peter doesn’t say anything until they’ve left the distillery and they’re about to split up. Derek and Cora will head one way and look out for each other. He thinks he’ll head for the library, but then remembers that Chris might go there looking for him. Forget that. “That was rather well-timed,” he says.

“Yeah,” Derek says. He doesn’t say anything else, but Peter knows what he’s thinking, knows that if Scott had decided to stay there with some of the others, he probably would have gotten killed when the Walcotts showed up. Derek shakes his head a little and says, “Take care of yourself, Uncle Peter.”

“See you in a couple days,” Peter says, and heads out into the dwindling light.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Snow is falling thick and fast as Stiles heads home from his patrol, erasing all evidence that spring was on its way. There were already several inches piling up, and he knows he’s looking at a long night of shoveling. They only have one plow, so keeping the roads clear could get difficult. He’s not looking forward to it. Manual labor is nothing new, but his throat has been sore for a couple days now and he can feel whatever virus he’s picked up lurking in the wings, waiting for a weakness.

On the other hand, a snowstorm is good, because it’s a change from routine, and any change from routine leaves Gerard vulnerable. In his day-to-day schedule, Gerard is a machine. Stiles has watched and waited and assessed for years now, and there’s no openings. He sleeps above his office and then he’s there most of the day. He makes his own food. Twice a day, he leaves the confines of his office to observe the exercises and give new assignments.

There are only a few ways that Stiles thinks he’ll be able to get to Gerard. A physical fight isn’t an option. Some people might assume that an old man would be vulnerable to a well-trained, young soldier. Stiles isn’t one of those people. He’s seen Gerard fight, even sparred with him a few times. Gerard is made of iron, and his appearance gives the lie to how tough he is. In a physical fight, he would kick Stiles’ ass.

There’s no way to get anywhere near him with a weapon, if he could get a weapon at all. They only get their rifles at the beginning of their patrol, and they have to hand them in directly afterwards. Weapons are held in storage that has a lot more security than the supply warehouse has.

Part of the problem is that Stiles would like very much to _survive_ assassinating Gerard. He can think of ways to do it, but they’re basically suicide missions. Gerard almost always has one or two people with him, and if Stiles just pulls out a gun and starts shooting, he’s going to die.

A sniper shot would be a good method, except for the fact that Stiles hasn’t been trained in advanced marksmanship yet. Given his overall strengths and capabilities, poison is the obvious answer. And obtaining the poison itself won’t be that difficult, because they use wolfsbane all over the complex, and aconite is almost as poisonous to humans as it is to werewolves.

The difficulty is getting Gerard to take it, and that’s where a snowstorm might come in handy. If Gerard goes out to ‘supervise’, maybe Stiles can get in position to hand him a cup of coffee or something. A delicious cup of wolfsbane coffee. Stiles has heard that the gastrointestinal symptoms it causes are truly stunning to behold.

They’re about halfway through dinner when the radio crackles. As expected, it’s Kate, telling Chris that Gerard wants them for snow clearing duty. Stiles shovels the rest of his food into his mouth and changes so he’s wearing a dry undershirt and socks. He bundles up and heads out into the night with his father. He hopes the Hales are okay, holed up somewhere safe. The last time he had seen them, they’d had to leave the distillery and were in the ruins of a car dealership. It hadn’t had much of a roof.

He has the little envelope of wolfsbane powder tucked away underneath his clothes, but he never gets within fifty feet of Gerard. He and Chris are sent to keep the base’s perimeter road clear along with half a dozen other men, and it’s grueling work. It’s the sort of wet, heavy snow that makes for back-breaking labor.

It’s monotonous, and he sinks into something of a trance after a while. Shovel, breathe out, toss the snow into the ever-growing pile, breathe in, shovel, breathe out . . . his world narrows to a point where the snow is the only thing he sees. They break every hour for about five minutes. At least there’s no shortage of water.

The snow stops sometime in the wee hours of the night, and Stiles staggers back to the house just after dawn. “Go ahead and shower first,” Chris tells him, and he grunts in a combination of thanks and acceptance. He strips out of his clothes and heads into the bathroom.

The hot water feels like it’s burning his skin, and he turns it back to tepid. Everything blurs and sways in his vision, and he finds himself holding onto the wall, trying to stay upright. He’s just tired. He rinses quickly and forgoes soap due to a complete lack of caring. When he finally leaves the bathroom, he can barely move.

“Hey, you’re awfully pale.” Allison is awake and waiting to use the bathroom. “Were you out all night?”

“Yeah, I,” Stiles rasps. He hadn’t realized how much the work had taken its toll on him, how every muscle aches and his head throbs and his throat stings.

Allison steps closer and presses a hand against the back of his neck. “Whoa, you’re burning up,” she says. “Dad?” she calls out, as Stiles attempts to shush her. Chris comes out of the master bedroom, wearing only a pair of loose pajama pants. “I think Stiles might be getting sick.”

“Go wash your hands,” Chris tells her immediately, while Stiles feebly protests that he feels fine. Chris feels his forehead and the back of his neck, frowning, and then shoos him into his bedroom. “How bad is it?” he asks, then immediately adds, “And don’t lie.”

“Head hurts. Throat hurts.” Stiles lets his head thump back against his pillow. “Everything hurts.”

“You should have said something,” Chris says. “I’ll be right back.”

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to pretend that the world is in order. Chris comes back a minute later with a glass of water. He makes Stiles drink all of it, wipes his face down with a damp cloth, and tells him to get some sleep. Stiles wants to argue, but he can’t bring himself to care.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who asked, wolfsbane poisoning would cause much different symptoms from what Stiles has - irregular heartbeat, dizziness, hallucinations. Nothing like the fever and cough Stiles has developed. :)
> 
> Man, Stiles and Derek are doing a lot better than Chris and Peter, LOL

 

Chris supposes that it’s not easy for any father to see their child suffer. But Stiles’ illness breeds a special kind of fear in him. He sits by his bedside and watches him lie there, struggling to breathe, wracked by coughing fits. He’s lucid most of the time, though. His fever never gets so high that he loses coherency, which is a relief.

It doesn’t help that aside from Allison, nobody else seems worried about Stiles at all. Victoria clearly doesn’t care, and Gerard thinks that Chris is being a sentimental fool by wanting to stay with him. “People get sick,” is Kate’s opinion, with a shrug, when Chris mentions it to her. Chris pisses Gerard off by handing his classes over to her for the duration.

The topic of medicine came up once. Gerard brushed the request off, saying that Stiles was a healthy young man and would easily recover from whatever bug he had picked up. Chris wasn’t stupid enough to ask again. Instead, he sent Allison to see Kate. Despite Kate’s faults, she loves her niece and can’t say no to her. Allison comes home with a bottle of Tylenol and a pack of antibiotics.

“You know it’s probably viral,” Stiles rasps, when Chris gives him the medicine.

“Not with a cough like that, it isn’t,” Chris says. “That’s going to turn into pneumonia in a real hurry if we don’t treat it now.”

“Whatever you say,” Stiles says, rolling onto his side and hacking up some phlegm.

It’s good to see that Stiles is still Stiles, even when he feels miserable. He tries to crack jokes, even if they’re usually lame, and requests ridiculous meals that he knows they can’t make. Despite the requests, he doesn’t eat much. Mostly he just drinks tea. Chris or Allison take turns sitting with him, propping him up while he takes slow sips.

He sleeps a lot, for obvious reasons. Reading makes his head ache, so Allison reads to him. The second day is the worst, as the disease races through his body. When he’s getting worse on the third day, that’s when Chris sends Allison to get the medicine. By the end of that day, he’s sleeping peacefully. He spends most of the next day in a drugged semi-stupor, calling for his mother and mumbling about werewolves and blood and cold.

“Dad?” he mumbles, when he rouses enough to drink some tea and take more medicine.

Chris squeezes his hand. “It’s Chris.”

“S’what I said.” Stiles blinks slowly. “Dad.”

“Oh. Right.” Chris shakes his head. “You were asking for your mother earlier, so I thought . . .”

“Nnf.” Stiles tries to sit up, fails and sinks back against the pillows. “I only had one mom. I’ve got two dads, though. I guess that makes me lucky. Having an extra dad. Even if he’s dead.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m making much sense.”

“It’s fine. You’re on some pretty heavy drugs.” He puts his hand against Stiles’ forehead. “Your fever’s not too bad, though.”

Stiles accepts the cup of tea and drinks it slowly. “Feel a bit better. Head still hurts, though.” He gives a few shuddering coughs and then lays back down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Chris says.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Chris is quiet for a minute. He thinks about commenting that it’s one hell of a thing to ask a married man, but he supposes that it’s not surprising that Stiles has figured out that he’s never loved Victoria. “Yeah. Where did that come from?”

“I guess I was just thinking about Heather, and . . .”

“Ahh.” Chris smiles down at his son. “You think you’re in love with her?”

“No. I guess I’m pretty sure I’m not.” Stiles rolls onto his side. “What’s it like? Being in love.”

“It’s . . . hard to describe,” Chris says. “You think about the person a lot. You’re preoccupied with them, I guess I would say. You want to be with them all the time. And you . . . you want things for them as much as you want them for yourself, sometimes more.”

Stiles’ eyelids flutter for a minute. “Mm,” is all he says in reply.

“Sound familiar at all?” Chris asks, smiling a little. He’s happy for his son, if Stiles has found someone to love, but it hurts more than he would have expected, to think of the good times with Peter. The way they would stay out all night and drink and dance, or sometimes stay in and watch movies and eat too much popcorn. Peter’s smirk, and the curve of his neck that always drove Chris out of his mind. How attractive Peter’s confidence was.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I guess a little. I don’t think he really . . . feels the same way about me, though.”

Chris is surprised at the male pronoun, but doesn’t know why. In fact, up until Allison had casually mentioned Stiles’ date with Heather, he’s never seen Stiles interested in a girl. He thinks about what he knows about his son. “Let me guess,” he says. “Someone older? Someone that you look up to, maybe?”

Stiles is already a little flushed from the fever, but the pinkness in his cheeks intensifies. “Yeah.”

Chris thinks of all the twenty-somethings in the militia, with their biceps and abs and skill with firearms. It’s a wonder that Stiles hasn’t thrown himself at them. “Well, you won’t know until you ask, right? Don’t take it so seriously. You’re still young. Just ask him out on a date, see what happens.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says. He yawns and closes his eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You get some sleep,” Chris tells him. “I’ll bring you dinner in a little while.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“What do you mean, he’s sick?” Derek asks, his voice rising slightly.

Lydia looks at Cora and murmurs, “Is your brother gonna be okay?”

Cora’s dramatic eye roll is answer enough. The rest of the pack is giving Derek a somewhat wary look as he demands answers from Isaac, who undoubtedly doesn’t have them. The beta has his hands lifted in surrender. “I just heard one of the patrols talking about it. Bitching that he had to pull a double shift because Stiles hasn’t taken patrol in a few days. And saying that whatever he’s sick with, he needs to get over it already.”

“Sounds like it’s not too serious,” Malia says, rummaging through their meager collections of the day. She groans and says, “We sure could use some fucking supplies.”

“Stiles’ purpose in life isn’t to supply us with things,” Derek snaps. “You could try being a little concerned.”

Malia shrugs and says, with her usual practicality, “It’s not like there’s anything we can do about it, whether it’s serious or not.”

“That’s not the point.” Derek’s scowl deepens.

Lydia intervenes in an attempt to calm the waters. “We’re all worried about Stiles, Derek. But from the way the patrol was talking about it, he’s probably just come down with a cold or maybe a case of strep. The militia has the stuff they need to treat that sort of thing. Chris Argent isn’t going to just let his son die. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“It would be nice if there _was_ something we could do, though,” Scott says, and then brightens. “I know. We should get some stuff together, like a ‘get well soon’ basket. I mean, we won’t be able to actually give it to him – ”

“Then what’s the point?” Malia asks.

“ – until he comes back, but we could give it to him then. Like a ‘welcome back’ basket.”

“What could we possibly give him?” Isaac asks. “I mean, what do we have that he doesn’t?”

“It’s not about having _things_ ,” Scott says. “It’s about the fact that people are thinking about you, even when you’re not around them. Trust me on this. I spent a lot of time in the hospital when I was a kid, and it was always nice to get the cards and stuff, even when they were just badly drawn, handwritten crap, because it meant that people missed me.”

“So we should write Stiles cards?” Malia asks.

“Yes,” Derek says firmly. “We’re all going to write Stiles a note just to let him know that we were thinking of him.” His tone implies ‘whether you want to or not’, and if it seems a little ridiculous that their alpha is ordering them to write get-well-soon cards, nobody bothers to question it.

Boyd is the one who dares to ask, “Write them with what?”

Cora stands up. “Lydia and I can go stop by Deaton’s. I’m sure he has some spare paper and pencils we can have.”

“Crayons,” Scott says. “You know, for color.”

Derek scowls again and looks outside. “It’s too late to go now. You can run by tomorrow.”

“It won’t be dark for at least an hour,” Cora says. “C’mon, Der. We’ll be fine.”

“Take Peter with you,” Derek says.

From up in the rafters where he normally keeps himself, Peter says, “Why am I being volunteered to go out into hideous weather to get arts and craft supplies for a sick teenager who won’t even get to enjoy the fruits of our labor until he’s not sick anymore?”

“Because I said so,” Derek replies.

“Because if you don’t, you have to stay here with him,” Cora mutters underneath her breath.

Peter drops down out of the rafters. “Excellent point, Cora,” he says. “I think a brisk walk is exactly what I need.”

Derek flips him off.

“Come along, ladies,” Peter says. He pushes open the door to the old car dealership, shoving it hard to move some of the snow. The building has made a terrible shelter against the weather, and they spent most of the storm huddled up in a tent they’d rigged up. They’re going to have to find somewhere new, which is another good reason to go see Dr. Deaton. He might be able to give them some advice.

“So . . .” Lydia says, pulling her ragged jacket tighter around her. “Your brother. Wow.”

“He’s an idiot,” Cora agrees, with a fond little smile.

“Does he have even the slightest idea?”

“Of what, exactly? How stupid he is?”

Lydia gives an elegant shrug. “How _gone_ he is for Stiles. Or how gone Stiles is for him. Or that the entire pack is well aware of their mutual pining.”

“Oh, yeah, I think he knows all those things,” Cora says. “But he’s doing the ‘I don’t deserve to have nice things’ routine. I think he’s afraid that if he actually said something to Stiles, if they actually had a thing, then everything would end in disaster.”

“Should we do anything about it?” Lydia asks.

“No. He’ll only get his back up if we try to push.” Cora shrugs. “If we let him deal with it, eventually he might see the light. Or Stiles might run out of patience and jump him.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

“I know, right?” Cora giggles.

Peter shakes his head a little, but doesn’t interrupt them. He prowls ahead, lingers, falls behind, always on watch. It’s nice to hear them laughing and enjoying themselves, even if it is at Derek’s expense. He keeps a keen eye out as they slog through the snow that’s still piled on a lot of the streets. It takes about twenty minutes to get to Deaton’s clinic. “We can’t stay long,” he warns them.

“We’ll be quick,” Lydia says. They ease in through the back door.

Dr. Deaton is tending to a stray dog’s wounded leg. He looks up when they come in and gives them a warm smile. “Well, hello, ladies,” he says, then glances over Cora’s shoulder and adds, “Peter.”

Peter gives him a nod.

“We need some paper and some stuff to draw with,” Cora says. “Derek’s got a bee in his bonnet about sending get well soon cards to Stiles. I guess he’s sick with some virus or something.”

Deaton looks amused and says, “I can probably handle that. Let me finish this up, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“No problem,” Cora says, stepping over to pet the dog while Deaton works.

Peter clears his throat and says, “We can’t stay long. The sun will be setting soon.”

“This will only be a few minutes,” Deaton says, not looking up from what he’s doing. “You should tell Derek that Stiles is recovering well. I actually spoke with his father this morning. He came down to the clinic to pick up some of the herbal mixtures I use. They have antibiotics, of course, but he knows that some of the natural remedies can work well.”

“Really?” Lydia sounds skeptical. “I mean, in the absence of real medicine, I’d certainly give it a whirl, but . . .”

Deaton looks amused. “No. It was just an excuse. He wanted to give me a message. But since he mentioned the teas, I asked how Stiles was doing. He should be back on his feet in a day or two and probably back to patrolling by next week.”

“What was the message?” Cora asks.

“Well, actually, it was for you, Peter,” Deaton says. “He asked me to tell you, should I see you, that he’d like to meet with you. At your convenience, of course.”

Cora blinks at her uncle, surprised. “You still see Chris?”

“No,” Peter says, and scoffs. “He came to see me a few weeks ago. Had a question about something. I told him to bugger off. But now he seems to have some idea about rekindling our relationship. An apt term,” he adds, “given that I’d set him on fire before I spent an evening with him. I suppose this message had a time and place attached to it?”

Deaton nods. “The library, at sunset. He’ll be there – ”

“Every day until I am,” Peter says, and rolls his eyes. “What a jackass.”

“Are you going to go?” Lydia asks.

“I don’t see why I should,” Peter replies.

Lydia and Cora exchange a look. “Maybe Chris could help us,” Cora says.

“We aren’t in need or want of Chris Argent’s help,” Peter says. He sees the look on Cora’s face and says, a little more quietly, “No. He can’t be trusted. And I don’t want you going to the library to see what he wants. Promise me.”

Cora sighs. “I promise. But only because I know you’re going to go anyway.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Yeah. Your curiosity will get the better of you.” Cora gives a little shrug and releases the dog as Deaton finishes up.

Peter looks annoyed, but Deaton is already putting together the supplies they’ve asked for. Cora accepts the bag and thanks him. By the time she looks up, Peter is gone.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is willing to wait another week before taking patrol again, because he really doesn’t want to, but he’s not going to wait another week before he brings supplies and the schedule to the Hale pack. To get the schedule, he has to be _on_ the schedule, so he disobeys his father and goes down to HQ to tell them that he’s all better and he can start taking shifts again. Twenty minutes later, he leaves with the new patrol schedule.

Chris gives him an exasperated look when he finds this out. “You were seriously ill,” he tells Stiles.

“Yeah, but I’m fine now,” Stiles says, and waits until his father has left the room to have his coughing fit. He honestly does feel fine, but the cough has lingered. He ignores it.

What he can’t ignore is Allison, who corners him that evening. “Are you just taking patrol so you can get more supplies?’ she asks.

“Yes,” he tells her, and as soon as she opens her mouth, he says, “and you’re not coming this time, Allison. I can’t look out for you while I’m not in peak condition. Maybe next time.”

“I want to help people,” she says.

Stiles sighs. “Look, Ally, I know that you’re upset because you talked to Dad and, as I predicted, it got you absolutely nowhere. But doing what I do is hard enough without . . . complications. Okay?”

Allison is quiet for a minute before saying, “Is it going to be like this forever?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says.

She walks away without saying anything else. Stiles goes to bed, but he’s up at eleven and heading to the supply warehouse. He won’t be able to bring a lot of heavy stuff. He’s not confident in his strength yet. So it’s mostly lighter goods like pasta and beans and nuts. He throws in some orange juice concentrate so nobody will get scurvy and then heads out.

The foot of snow they had gotten is mostly gone now. It’s cold out, but the worst of winter is over. He’s bundled up regardless, because he doesn’t want to get sick again. The roads are edged with slush and mud. It’s been in the thirties during the day, so the snow is melting.

“Hey, Dr. D, where are my peeps?” Stiles calls out, but the clinic is empty. He pulls out the map and goes through the motions the way Dr. Deaton had showed him, looking for the concentrations of energy, for the crimson energy that means an alpha. He doesn’t know how he knows the difference between Satomi and Derek, but he always does.

He’s not surprised to see that they’ve left the car dealership. Now they’re holed up in an abandoned apartment building. It’s one of their favored haunts, and he’s guessing that Derek has chosen it because he knows it’s relatively safe. It’s also far away from the distillery and the wendigoes that have set up shop there. Stiles chews on his lip and again thinks of dropping a tip to Kate’s guys about them. It’s not even entirely for the Hale pack’s benefit. Stiles is well aware that although most supernatural creatures mind their own business and don’t hurt anybody, there are a few bad eggs. Wendigoes are nasty. It’s not exactly their fault that they survive by consuming human flesh, but the Walcotts have never been particularly picky about whether or not that flesh was still alive when they got there.

He sighs and shelves it for now, closing up the map and heading out into the night. The apartment building is a good half hour away, and he shoulders his bag. It’s nearly midnight when he gets there, and the pack is asleep. He gets in through a side door without anyone challenging him. That surprises him a little, but he supposes that whoever was on watch just didn’t bother to stop him. He sets his things down quietly.

It’s stupid to be annoyed that whoever’s on watch didn’t wake the others. It’s not like he expected a banner and confetti. But he has to admit that he had hoped his return would be a little more than dropping off a box and slinking away into the night.

“Hey – hey!” Scott hisses, as he climbs out of the pile of sleeping bodies. “Hey, you’re back! We have something for you.”

“You have – something for me?” Stiles asks, blinking at him.

“Yeah, man!” Scott shuffles around in their things and then thrusts a brown paper bag at him.

Stiles frowns and peers inside to see a little stack of notes. He pulls them out and starts leafing through. The one on top is scrawled in brown crayon and reads: ‘Hi Stiles we miss you hope your feeling better Malia’ with a little smiley face with fangs. The next is written in elegant script. ‘Hello, Stiles. We heard that you were sick from a patrol. I hope that it wasn’t too serious. Derek has missed you and frowns a lot (not that that’s anything new). I’m sorry that we couldn’t come up with anything to give you besides these notes. Love, Lydia.’

Stiles continues to blink in surprise and bewilderment as he goes through the letters. Some of them are quite short, like Malia’s and Isaac’s, but a few of them are long. Cora tells him about how they had to move out of the car dealership because there was no roof and how they still have a little cinnamon left so he should have some. Boyd writes about how they’ve gotten the solar battery working, just in time for the week-long string of cloudy days, and recommends ginger tea for any lingering symptoms he might have.

“You okay?” Scott asks, and Stiles realizes that he’s crying, which is unacceptable, really. He snuffles and wipes his eyes hastily.

“Yeah, I just . . .” Stiles pulls out the last note and unfolds it. He’s not sure what to expect from Derek, and somehow he’s not surprised to see that the letter just reads ‘I don’t like it when you’re sick. – Derek.’ He’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry, and wipes at his eyes again.

“What did Derek write? He wouldn’t tell us.”

Stiles stuffs the note into his pocket. “Nothing, just generic crap,” he says. He looks over at the pile of sleeping bodies and sees that Derek’s eyes are open. He feels himself turning bright pink and quickly looks away. “Hey, tell the others I’ll try to come by next week, okay? I couldn’t carry a lot of heavy stuff today so there isn’t a lot there. But I’ll be back.”

“Okay.” Scott gives him a bro-hug and then waves as he turns and quickly jogs away.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter’s watching from the balcony as Chris comes into the library, pulling down his scarf to reveal his jaw and that ridiculously attractive beard. He doesn’t say anything, waits for Chris to figure out he’s there. As usual, it only takes the hunter a few seconds. “Peter,” he says, and there’s a note of relief to his voice. He’s glad that Peter answered his message, even if he probably knows that it was mostly due to curiosity.

“Yes, I’m here,” Peter says. He avoids the rickety staircase, jumping over the balcony to land in a neat crouch. He has no idea _why_ he’s there, but both Chris and Cora were right. He can’t just not go find out what Chris wants. Curiosity has long been his downfall. Besides, he wants to know if Chris has gotten anywhere in his search for the Stilinskis’ murderers. He’s curious about what Chris will do if he ever figures it out.

“You look . . . better,” Chris says.

“Very tactful,” Peter replies. “Yes, I _had_ had a rough week before our last visit. This time I’ve actually eaten in the past three days. I must look fantastic.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Chris says.

“I don’t particularly care how you meant it,” Peter says. “Say what you have to say.”

Chris lets out a breath. He tugs almost nervously at the bottom of his jacket. It’s an odd behavior on him. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“You’re sorry?” Peter echoes.

“Yes. I was thinking about it the other day and realized that I had never . . . I never apologized for what happened. So I’m sorry. You asked for my help, and I wouldn’t give it to you. I had my reasons, but that doesn’t change the fact that I refused to help you. So I’m sorry.”

Peter ponders this for a long minute before a smile flits across his face. “Aw, Chris,” he says. “You _do_ still love me.”

Chris’ mouth tightens a little, and he looks away, but he doesn’t deny it.

Peter walks over to him. He rests his hands on Chris’ chest, lightly, one hand toying with his jacket’s zipper. “I’ve missed you, you know,” he says, and tilts his chin up. He couldn’t make it more obvious that he wants to be kissed, and Chris obliges. He leans down slowly, giving Peter time to pull away, before he brushes his lips over Peter’s. He does this once, twice, then leans in for a deeper kiss. Peter makes it a good one. “Do you know what I think?” he murmurs against Chris’ mouth, when they come up for air.

“What do you think?” Chris asks.

“I think . . . that I don’t still love you.” Peter steps back. He watches it hit Chris, watches the rejection lodge underneath his breastbone. “And I don’t want your fucking apology.”

He turns and walks away. But he’s only made it a few steps when Chris says, “You used to be a better liar.”

Peter knows he shouldn’t stop, but he does, half-turning back and raising his eyebrows.

“If you didn’t feel anything for me, you never would have come here today,” Chris says.

“I didn’t say I felt nothing,” Peter says. “Just that I didn’t love you. I felt plenty of things upon receiving your invitation. I felt curious. I felt angry. I felt . . . hm, what’s the best word for this?” His lip curls. “Contempt. That’s what I feel for you now, Chris. Did you seriously think you could just apologize and make everything all better? That I would melt back into your arms? Did you think your apology would make a God damned bit of difference to me?”

“No,” Chris says. “But I figured that regardless of whether or not you accepted it, I still needed to say it. So I’m sorry, Peter.”

“You _are_ sorry,” Peter agrees. “You’re a contradiction in terms, did you know that? I can’t call you a coward. You’re one of the bravest men I know. You only show this complete lack of courage when it comes to me. To us. For a long time I thought it was me, did you know that? I thought that there must be something about me that meant I wasn’t worth your courage. But it’s not me. It’s not even these,” he adds, holding up a hand to display his claws. “It’s you. You’ll face down death and pain without blinking. But when the very thought of your father’s disapproval lurks on the horizon, you’re suddenly an enormous baby. And do you know what? That, I would have forgiven you for, because I can only imagine what your childhood must have been like.

“But what I won’t forgive you for is the fact that you used me. For years. I was your way of rebelling against him. Daddy makes you mad, you run and fuck your werewolf to get back at him. But when I needed you, you weren’t willing to take any risks for me. I only ever existed to you when it was convenient. So you can keep your apology, Chris, and you can stop presuming that you know how I feel about anything.”

Chris closes his eyes for a long minute. Then he nods. This time it’s him who walks away.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shit hath hitteth the fan .... eth.

 

Stiles slogs through the last couple weeks of winter as well as he can. He takes Allison on another run to Deaton’s, carrying more supplies for the people in town. They focus on children, carrying diapers and wipes, and the elderly or ill, smuggling out painkillers and hot packs. Allison somehow manages to track down several boxes of crayons – the troops keep them for emergency candles, of all things – and several mothers start crying when she hands them out.

Allison has been unusually quiet lately, and Stiles tries to draw her out, but she doesn’t really want to talk much. Stiles knows that it has to be hard on her, seeing her family for what it really is. But he doesn’t know what to say. Not until she finally asks, “Why do you do this?”

“Because I have to,” he says.

“No, I know that,” she replies. “I mean . . . why did you _start_ doing this? What made you . . . not believe in the . . . the rules?”

“Oh.” Stiles chews on his lower lip and tries to decide how much to tell her. “You know that mom and dad kept us sheltered from all of this as much as they could. Well, when I ran away when I was thirteen, remember the old woman who helped me? She told me about how things really were. I just . . . opened my eyes, after that.”

“It probably helped that Gerard treats you like crap, huh,” she says glumly.

“Sure as hell didn’t hurt.”

Allison nods a little. “Can I . . . can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, and gestures. “You know some of mine, what am I gonna do?”

“It’s just . . . I know that hunting down the supernatural monsters is important, safety of the townspeople, can’t control their instincts, et cetera,” she says, and waves this off. “I just . . . you remember my friend, Lydia? She turned out to be a banshee? I really miss her. I don’t even know if she’s all right, and I wish more than anything that I could see her again.”

Stiles reaches out and squeezes her hand. He can’t tell her that he knows exactly where Lydia is, and that she’s actually doing pretty well, all things considered. Allison might miss Lydia, but she wouldn’t take well to a bunch of werewolves. “Maybe someday you will.”

“You’re not mad?” Allison asks.

“Why would I be mad?”

“I know you hate werewolves, so . . .”

“I don’t hate werewolves,” Stiles says, and Allison looks at him, surprised. “I hate the werewolves who killed my parents,” he continues, “but I don’t know that all werewolves are like that. I know that’s what Gerard wants us to think, but . . . I just don’t know, Ally. I mean, humans can do horrible things, too. Humans can commit murder. So the fact that werewolves killed my parents doesn’t mean I hate all werewolves.”

“But . . . you’re in the militia.”

“Yeah, because that’s how I could get access to the supplies,” he says. “Gerard was going to make me join anyway, I mean, because of my pubescent rage, so I figured I might as well use the opportunity as much as I could. Why not?”

“Huh,” she says, and seems to ponder this. “I guess you’re right. About people doing horrible things, too.”

The edge of the compound is coming into sight. He waits for the lights to be directed elsewhere and then gives her an alley-oop over the fence. “Do you think Dad really believes in all this?” Allison asks.

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t think Dad knows what he believes.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence.

He’s up early the next morning, wolfs down a bowl of oatmeal, and heads to the training headquarters. He wants to snoop around a little before he has to go out on patrol. It’s easy enough, because nobody thinks to guard their mouths around him. He’s just another guy in the militia. So he finds out pretty quickly that there’s a raid scheduled that night to hit the coven that’s been living underground. He doesn’t know where they are, and the guy doesn’t say, so he’ll have to bring the information to Deaton.

He goes out on patrol with Braeden, who’s as professional as ever. When he gets back later that day, he heads to HQ to trade in his dirty uniforms for clean ones. A group of men are standing around talking as he squeezes past them to get to the cupboards.

“Hey, you going on the raid tonight?”

“Yeah. It’s a late one, right? Midnight?”

Stiles pricks his ears up, because the raid of the witches had been scheduled for dusk. Witches are more powerful at night, so hitting them at midnight would be a bad idea. Go in at dusk, and you could get to them before they got their mojo working.

“Yeah. Can’t wait to hang some pelts on my wall.”

“No shit, right? Lieutenant Argent said that there’s a special bonus for whoever bags the alpha.”

Stiles takes his pile of uniforms and decides he has to risk a question. It’ll just look like curiosity; there’s probably no harm in it. And there are never two raids in one night. They just don’t have the manpower. So he asks, “Which alpha?”

“Rumor has it that someone sent in a tip about the Hale pack,” the man says. “Living in some abandoned apartment building.”

“Huh, cool,” Stiles says. “Good luck, shoot a werewolf for me.”

He leaves HQ, but doesn’t go home. Instead he just finds a bench and sits down, trying to figure out what to do. The only reason they would do two raids in one night – or three, or four – is because they know there’s a mole. Stiles has no doubt that the information he’s stumbled upon is being very tightly controlled. Gerard wants to see what raid is disrupted. He’s narrowing down his options.

Practically, what that means is that anyone might be raided tonight – or no one at all. And it means that he can’t warn anybody. Not without risking being caught. And then he’ll be no good to anyone. The Hales will be okay. If they even get raided, it’ll be a small party, something they can handle. If they even decide to stick around and fight back. Whoever’s on watch will smell and hear the goons coming, and they can always get out the back. He hopes.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek isn’t a huge fan of the old apartment building, which over the years has hosted a lot of different supernatural creatures. There are probably others there even now, hiding in the various rooms. It’s also used by drug dealers and prostitutes and other humans who want to conduct business away from the militia’s eyes. Their supply to fancy drugs has been cut off, but there are people in town still trying to grow marijuana or tobacco, and there’s plenty of bathtub moonshine to go around. The humans are never thrilled to share the space with the werewolves, but they don’t want the Argents onto them anymore than the werewolves do.

So an uneasy truce exists between the two factions, and Derek never sleeps well when they’re staying at the tenement. Their options are limited, though, so they spend two weeks there every few months. He sleeps a little better now that Stiles has been helping them, but still tosses and turns.

It’s hard to sleep on this particular night because it’s raining: a cold, hard rain. People in town are excited because it means that spring is probably taking over from winter. Derek isn’t excited, per se, but he is relieved. The pack needs to get more time outside. They’ve been crammed together all winter, and everyone’s temper is short. Even the people who get along are being snippy with each, and those that don’t are worse than ever. Peter’s being moody about something, which increases his sarcasm tenfold, and nobody is happy with that.

There’s the sudden sharp noise of breaking glass, and Derek has just sat up when the grenade goes off.

It’s only a smoke grenade, fortunately, but Derek’s lungs start to burn and he knows it’s laced with wolfsbane. The rest of the pack is scrambling to their feet, half-asleep and disorganized as people come crashing in through the windows in their dark fatigues. “Scatter!” Derek manages to cough out, grabs Cora by the wrist, and drags her out of the room. He doesn’t see Peter, and it’s impossible to tell who’s who through the smoke. All they can do is run.

They have a plan for what happens when there’s a raid and it’s too short notice to do more than scatter. They meet an hour later at Deaton’s. Derek and Cora spend the hour huddled up underneath someone’s front porch, cringing every time they hear a noise. Derek has Cora held against his shoulder and is trying desperately to maintain his connection to the rest of the pack. He doesn’t practice enough, can’t be sure he would know if someone had been killed.

When they get to Deaton’s, Scott and Isaac are already there. Isaac is holding his arm gingerly against his chest and Scott’s shirt is soaked with blood, but they’re both upright. Lydia arrives a moment later, soaked to the skin and shivering. Cora immediately goes over to her and pulls her into a tight hug, and they cling to each other in the rain. Malia pads up a few minutes later in her coyote form.

“Come inside, for goodness’ sake,” Deaton says a minute later, opening the back door. He distributes hot tea. It washes some of the burning feeling out of Derek’s lungs that has lingered after the wolfsbane.

Peter walks in a few minutes later. He’s only damp, not soaked like the others, and he takes a cup of tea with a nod of thanks. Then he turns to the others and says, pleasantly, “What happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?” Isaac snaps at him.

“I mean, you were on watch, Isaac,” Peter says. “I’d think even you would have noticed half a dozen people with guns and wolfsbane approaching.”

“Malia was on watch, too,” Isaac says, and Malia snarls at him.

Scott pushes both hands through his hair. “Guys,” he says quietly. Derek looks at him, looks at the others, and decides that it might be better to let Scott handle this. He has a better touch with the betas. “I know it was cold last night. Just tell the truth, okay? Nobody’s angry.”

Peter opens his mouth. Cora steps on his foot.

“Look, this is not our fault,” Isaac says. “We didn’t know there was going to be a raid!”

“That’s what makes it a raid, Isaac,” Lydia says, with a touch of exasperation in her voice.

“Stiles is supposed to tip us off – ”

“So you stopped taking watches seriously,” Peter says, and shakes his head. “Too cold, too damp, so you decided you’d be more comfortable inside. Am I correct?”

“It wasn’t just me,” Isaac says, his tone belligerent. “Malia, Erica, Boyd – none of us have bothered with the watches in weeks. And don’t let Scott’s act fool you, he was the one who told us not to tell you because you’d just get mad!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Derek says, raking one hand through his hair. He takes a deep breath and wrestles with his temper. “We’ll talk about this later. I don’t think Erica and Boyd have been killed. They must have been captured. We need to find a safe place we can go that we can figure out what to do.”

Deaton nods. “I think I can help you there.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles barely sleeps that night. He keeps thinking of the Hales, and whether or not there’s going to be a raid. He’s also somewhat preoccupied with the fact that Gerard has clearly figured out that there’s a mole. Of course, Stiles has always known that it would come to that. It was inevitable that Gerard would notice that the success rate on the patrols was going down. All he could do was try to deflect suspicion from himself as much as possible.

That wasn’t as hard as it could be. His ‘hatred for werewolves’ is well known, and when he gives people the patrol schedule, he doesn’t include his own patrols. That means that he’s still just as likely to stumble over a supernatural creature as he was before. And they do get glimpses of them, although it’s rare that they actually catch one.

At the same time, he doesn’t want someone else to take the fall for the things he’s doing. So as much as he might have wanted to warn the targets of the raids, there’s no way he could do it.

He’s out of bed the minute the sun rises, takes a two minute shower and cuts himself shaving. He throws on some clothes, grabs a granola bar and a thermos full of coffee before running out the door. Victoria is up, but doesn’t say a word to him. If Chris is up, he’s already left the house. It’s raining and cold, so he pulls up his hood as he jogs.

Stiles knows that he can’t just demand to know what had happened the previous night, since he probably wasn’t supposed to know about the raids at all, especially not that there was going to be more than one. The reports won’t be filed yet, though, so he can’t do that either. So he just heads to the mess hall, because he knows that the guys who live in the barracks all talk to each other, and anyone who was out on a raid will definitely be bragging about it.

He’s barely been there thirty seconds before hearing the name Hale, and scoots closer to the table discussing it. “ – in the infirmary with a broken arm, but she was the only casualty. Not bad for a night we nabbed two werewolves.”

Stiles swears underneath his breath.

“How ‘bout the alpha?”

“Nah, he took off. What a fucking coward. But we’ll get his location out of the other two.”

“He’ll just move.”

“Yeah, but they’ll know what sort of places he might move to. The city’s only so big. They’ll track him down.”

Stiles curses again. He finishes his coffee and jogs out of the cafeteria. He has work to do.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Luckily, it’s not a patrol day. He can sneak away from exercises easily enough, and head down to Deaton’s. The veterinarian is there, taking a little girl’s temperature. He doesn’t look up when Stiles comes in. “In my office,” he says, so Stiles heads in. The map is already out, and surprisingly points him to a residential district.

He jogs across town and heads to the house that the map has indicated. He’s about ten feet away from the door when he hears someone snap, “Don’t move!” and stops in his tracks. It’s Isaac, and he sounds considerably less good-natured than usual. A moment later, he jumps down off to the roof, partially shifted. He looks at Stiles, who’s standing stock still and a little confused.

“Hey, are you – ” he starts.

“Come with me,” Isaac says, taking him by the elbow none-too-gently. Stiles protests, but more out of surprise than anything else. Isaac drags him into the house and tosses him into the living room. He stumbles and practically falls. The house seems empty and abandoned.

“You!” Malia shoves her way forward. “Where the hell were you last night?”

“Look, I know that - ”

“No, you don’t know!” Malia shouts. “Look the fuck around, jackass, do you notice anyone missing?”

“I couldn’t - ”

“I don’t want to hear about what you could and couldn’t do,” Isaac snarls. “Erica and Boyd could be dead right now because you didn’t warn us that a raid was coming!”

“It wasn’t - ”

“Stop it!” Derek snarls. “Leave him alone. It wasn’t his fault.”

“We trusted him,” Malia says. “We trusted him and look what happened!”

“What happened,” Peter interjects acerbically, “is exactly what I had predicted would happen if you relied on Stiles. I told you all repeatedly not to. But you eased up. You let down your guard.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says.

“I’m not blaming you,” Peter says. “Quite the opposite. I told them over and over again that we wouldn’t be able to count on you - through no fault of your own, but through simple physics. You can’t be everywhere at once, which meant it was inevitable that eventually there would be a raid we weren’t warned about. Last night, Isaac and Malia were on watch, but they fell asleep. It turns out that the betas have often been sleeping through the watches because on cold nights, they’d rather be tucked away somewhere snug. And not only have they deliberately been hiding that from Derek, they were doing so on our precious Scott’s recommendation, thus proving that we should have thrown him out of the pack when I said.”

“Hey, you know what, asshole,” Scott says, “I agreed that I was wrong, I fucked up, so can you just fucking drop it – ”

“No, I really don’t think I will,” Peter says. “Mostly because I know that the _real_ reason you did it was because you were still pissed about losing the distillery, and you’re trying to persuade the betas that _you’re_ the better choice as alpha. You have no loyalty, Scott, and this has nothing to do with your faith in Stiles. You’re trying to steal my nephew’s betas and form your own pack, and although you might pretend to be the soft-hearted one, you’re every bit as mercenary as I am. And as much as I might respect that in you, I also won’t pardon it when it’s getting our pack in trouble.”

“Why don’t you just – ”

“So no, Scott, I will not ‘fucking drop it’, until you’ve admitted that you were wrong and Derek was right, and that your misestimation of the situation has quite probably gotten two of our pack members killed.”

“I just _said_ that I agreed I was wrong – ”

“But not for the right reasons. You think you were wrong because you misjudged one situation, one night, one shelter. You haven’t yet realized that what you have actually misjudged is the _world_ , Scott, and until you tell the betas that, I won’t be satisfied that you’re ‘sorry’.”

“That’s enough,” Derek says, his eyes shining crimson. “No more talking about blame. I’m the alpha. I take responsibility. And what we need to do now is figure out what to do going forward.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Erica and Boyd are being held at the militia HQ. They’re in electronic restraints. This morning, I slipped some wolfsbane into their water - don’t look at me like that!” he says, as the others begin snarling. “It was a mild dose. It’ll make them woozy and partly conscious, and that’ll keep Gerard from being able to question them today. It was to help them, not to hurt them.”

“Okay.” Derek lets out a breath. “What’s our way in?”

“Are you serious?” Peter asks, then rolls his eyes. “Of course you’re serious. You actually intend to try to rescue them.”

“Peter, I don’t want to have this conversation again,” Derek says. “They’re part of this pack, and the pack is all we have.”

“Besides,” Cora chips in, “I hate to be the one to say it, but there’s a pretty high chance that they’ll give away our location. Stiles has made sure they can’t be tortured for information _today_. But that’ll only work once, if we don’t want the wolfsbane to build up in their system and actually hurt them. And we can move, but Erica and Boyd know all about us, I mean - “

“No one’s going to let Erica and Boyd be tortured for information,” Derek says. He looks at Stiles and says, “How do we do this?”

Stiles rakes both hands through his hair. “It’s going to be virtually impossible. I mean . . . I could sabotage the generator. That would take care of their restraints. But someone would need to actually get them out of the building afterwards, and I don’t know how in the hell we can do that.”

“They won’t just be able to run?” Cora asks.

“Not after an entire day of my grandfather’s tender treatment,” Stiles says. “Wolfsbane or no wolfsbane, he’ll still try. Plus the constant voltage through the restraints is going to have them pretty weak. I don’t think they’ll need to be carried, but they won’t necessarily even realize ‘hey, it’s time to escape’.”

“So how do we get in?” Scott asks.

“You can’t,” Stiles says.

“There has to be a way,” Derek says.

“No, there really doesn’t,” Stiles says. “Two fences, all of which have a rotating guard. Spotlights at night.”

“They’ll go off if you cut the generator,” Lydia says.

“Oh no, no, no,” Stiles says. “Both fences have their own generators. They use too much power to share. And let’s not forget the infrared sensors. Keyed to send up an alarm if anything with a body temperature of over one hundred degrees comes within five feet of the outer fence.”

“We could chill ourselves first,” Scott says. “You know, soak in cold water, stand outside without clothes on.”

“Yeah, because being naked won’t draw anyone’s attention,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes.

“Trust me, guys, do you think other people haven’t tried?” Stiles says. “To get supplies, to kill Gerard, to rescue someone who’s been captured - every single one has failed. There is no way for a supernatural creature to get past those gates if they aren’t being dragged in chains.”

“Then capture one of us,” Lydia says. “Bring one of us through.”

Stiles blinks. “Jesus, the timing would have to be _perfect_ if we were going to pull that off, but - it could work. I mean, the generator would have to blow literally the minute I had you back in the holding cells, but that’s not impossible, if I could get the supplies I need to set it on a timer.”

“Can you?” Derek asks.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Then the question is, who are you going to ‘capture’?” Lydia asks.

“Me,” Derek says.

Stiles is already shaking his head. “It can’t be you, Derek. You’re the alpha. There are only two alphas in town left - you and Satomi Ito. And all the troops have orders to kill you on sight, not even attempt to capture you. I can’t bring you in through those gates. Even if they actually believed I hadn’t recognized you or had forgotten, they would kill you the moment you walked into the complex.”

“I’ll do it,” Scott says. When Derek looks at him, he says, “This is on me. I put everyone in danger. I should be the one to take the risk.”

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a breath. “let’s figure it out.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

 

They have to wait an extra day, and this doesn’t make anybody happy. Stiles is adamant, though. He doesn’t have patrol until the next day, and if he specifically requests being put on patrol, then apprehends a werewolf, and then disaster strikes, everyone will know that he was responsible. They have to wait until he has a patrol. On the upside, this gives him an additional day to work out the kinks in the plan to sabotage the generator. He and Lydia put their heads together over some electronics he cobbles together until they agree that it should work.

“So when I get you back into the holding cells, you’re going to have about thirty seconds before backup power comes on,” Stiles says to Scott. He’s standing over a map of the building he’s drawn in the dirt. “That gives you thirty seconds to disable me, get to Boyd and Erica, get them free, and get them out the door. Now, it’s longer than it sounds like, but I want to make sure you know exactly where you’re going.”

They run it a few times. Scott will be in restraints, so Stiles has to teach him how to maneuver in them, since he won’t be able to get out of them. He’s given Derek a key, so Derek can lurk outside the fence and toss it over to Scott. He won’t be able to climb the fence without it. Stiles thinks that blowing the generator will create enough chaos that they’ll be able to sneak out. The guards on the fence are far more concerned with people trying to get in than people trying to get out.

Scott memorizes the layout of the building and after repeated trials he can do the entire thing in twenty seconds. But he’s worried that other people will get in his way. “Why don’t you come with me?” he asks. “We could get Erica and Boyd together and you can smuggle us out the back, _then_ I could hit you.”

“And then what do I say when Gerard asks why I was by the back door, not in the holding cell where I was supposed to be taking you?” Stiles asks. “You can’t carry me back there; you won’t have time. You’ll have to do it on your own.” He sees Scott nod and then says, “And you’re not going to ‘hit’ me. You have to disable me. You’re going to have to _hurt_ me, Scott.”

Scott glances at Derek, whose jaw tightens. “I can’t just – ”

“Here’s what you do,” Stiles says, with ruthless resolve. “I’m going to be right here, right? With my hand on your restraints. You need to throw us both backwards, into the wall. Do it like you mean it, Scott. It’ll knock the wind out of me and I won’t be able to pursue.”

“If he uses his werewolf strength, you could be seriously hurt,” Lydia says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “but if all I get is a love tap, then Gerard will ask too many questions. It has to be this way. Either you hurt me, or everyone knows I’m the mole, and I wind up hanged in the square.” He gives a wan little smile. “I’ll be fine. I can handle it.”

Nobody likes it, and Derek gives a low growl that surprises everyone, but nobody argues, either. Stiles heads home, picks at his dinner, and turns in early.

He manages to act normal during field exercises the next day. Perimeter patrol is in the early afternoon, and he heads out with Braeden for the twilight patrol. As usual, she’s all business and no chatter. That works out fine for Stiles. He’s told Scott where to be.

Unlike Matt Daehler, Braeden is a consummate professional. Apprehending Scott would be easy even if he hadn’t been willing to go. As soon as they see him lurking, Braeden’s gun is up and she’s hobbled him. She walks over and jabs the stun gun into his back from three feet away. Scott’s body twitches and convulses while she pulls his arms around his back and gets the manacles around his wrists.

“Nice,” Stiles says.

“Yep,” is all Braeden says in reply.

They head back to base. Stiles takes a woozy Scott by the arm as they get to HQ and says, “I’ll run him over to holding if you get the paperwork done.”

“Sure you can handle him?” Braeden asks.

Stiles shoves his stun gun into Scott’s side and gives him a low voltage zap. He gives a shudder. “Think I got him,” Stiles says, and Braeden nods. Stiles heads over to the building with the holding cells and checks his watch. They’ve got three minutes, so he walks a little slower. It gives Scott some time to recover. They don’t talk as they head inside. Stiles feels his heart beating hard in his chest, and his stomach twists. There’s a good chance that someone is going to end up getting killed, and he just hopes that it isn’t him.

He says hello to the man on duty, who shoves a key at him and tells him to put Scott in the seventh cell. “You know how to hook up the electric restraints?” he asks.

“Yeah, I got it,” Stiles says. He walks down the hallway, shoving Scott in front of him. They open the door to the cell with about ten seconds to spare. He stands there for a minute, just trying to breathe. What if nothing happens? What if he made the explosives wrong, or screwed up the timer? What if he has to just put Scott in here and walk away, leaving Erica and Boyd in their cell down the hall?

There’s a thunderous noise and the lights go out.

Scott reacts immediately, throwing himself backwards and into Stiles, knocking both of them into the cell door opposite them. Stiles feels something hard hit him right in the back, with a flare of pain that consumes him, and everything goes black.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles returns to consciousness slowly. It’s not like he’s read about, where memories and facts trickle back in. As soon as he’s aware, he remembers what happened and figures he must be in the infirmary. He doesn’t freak out until he tries to move and can’t, and then he gives a little grunt of panic.

“Hey, easy, easy,” his father’s voice says. He manages to pry his eyelids open to see Chris leaning over him with a worn, worried expression. “Don’t try to move, okay?”

“Can’t,” Stiles rasps.

“Yeah, I know,” Chris says. “They gave you a paralytic. You have some bad bruising around your neck and spine, and they didn’t want you injuring yourself when you came to.”

“Shit,” Stiles says in response to that. He must sound terrible, because Chris lifts a cup of water up to his lips and lets him take little sips. “What happened?”

Chris’ jaw sets in an angry expression. “We’re not sure yet. The generator blew. That werewolf you had must have – well, he got away, is the long and the short of it.”

Stiles is less interested in what his father’s saying and more in what he’s _not_ saying. Nothing about the generator being sabotaged. Nothing about two other werewolves escaping – presuming they did. Stiles thinks that’s a safe assumption. Scott probably would have been captured or killed rather than leave without them.

“You’re going to be fine, though,” Chris says, squeezing his hand. Stiles can see it, but barely feel it. “You’ve got a pretty nasty concussion, but the real trouble is – I guess he must have tossed you backwards and the handle of the door across from you got you right in the back. They just want to wait for the swelling to go down before they have you move around at all.”

“’Kay,” Stiles says, and closes his eyes again. Everything hurts, and he just wants to check out for a little while.

When he surfaces again, he hears Chris yelling. “ – wait a day or two, for God’s sake!”

Someone is holding his hand, and Chris’ voice is too distant for it to be him, so without opening his eyes, Stiles says, “Let me guess – it’s all my fault and Gerard wants to come interrogate me.”

“Got it in one,” Allison says, her voice flat, emotionless. She doesn’t even sound worried or angry. Stiles manages to open his eyes again to see Allison sitting there, dark circles under her eyes, hair obviously unbrushed.

“ – just want to get his side of the story,” Gerard says.

Stiles closes his eyes again. “Any casualties?” he asks Allison.

“Guy at the fence got tossed around, but he’s hurt less than you are,” Allison says.

“So Gerard is pissed about . . . what, exactly?”

“Three werewolves escaped.”

Stiles feigns surprise. “Shit, three? That can’t be my fault. I only lost the one.”

Out in the hallway, Chris says, “Look, I know that you want to find some way that this is my fault because I used to be with Peter, but don’t you _dare_ bring Stiles into this when he’s injured – ”

Allison and Stiles look at each other. “Dad and Peter?” Allison asks. “Peter _Hale_?”

Stiles thinks back to some of the choice words he’s heard Peter say about the Argent family, about them being cowards who hide behind their walls, about how none of them are worth the blood in their veins. Suddenly, his remarks take on a whole new light. Similarly, Gerard’s treatment of Chris over the years makes a lot more sense.

Chris must lose the argument, because Gerard comes in, smiling that warm, reassuring smile that screams _lie_. “Hey, champ, how are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been beaten up and paralyzed,” Stiles says.

“That kid you brought in was part of the Hale pack,” Gerard says. “Along with the other two that escaped. Looks like the generator was sabotaged. You brought in a plant, Stiles.”

“I brought in a _what_?” Stiles says. He looks between Chris and Gerard. “Wait a second. Sabotage? If that werewolf let himself be captured and the generator blew just when I had him back there – you mean some asshole in the militia is helping the Hale pack and _that’s_ why I’m lying here and I might never fucking walk again? Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

He’s thought this through. Anger is the only option. If he denies or acts confused or anything like that, Gerard will just use it as an excuse to come measure his pulse. But if he’s pissed off, his heartrate will go up anyway, and Gerard will have nothing.

“It’s just a theory,” Chris says, trying to reassure him. “And your back is going to be fine.”

“Yeah, luckily!” Stiles snaps. “An inch higher and it might not have been, or if the medics hadn’t thought to give me the paralytic and I wrenched it when I came to. That son of a bitch could have gotten me killed, and for what? To rescue a couple monsters? What the hell!”

Gerard is watching this with pursed lips, and Stiles hopes he’s not overdoing it. “Son,” he finally says, “we’ve suspected that there’s a mole in the militia for several months now. Do you know anything about that?”

“Do I look like I know anything about it?” Stiles asks.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Gerard says.

“Yeah, no kidding, because you look like someone who wouldn’t let some asshole spill our secrets to a bunch of werewolves,” Stiles says, “and yet, all evidence to the contrary.”

Gerard’s mouth tightens again. He looks straight at Stiles and says, “We’re going to be checking in to who could have had access to the sort of device that was used on the generator. So whoever this mole is, we’re going to find them. I can promise you that.”

“Good,” Stiles says. “I want to be in the front row at their hanging.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Gerard says. He turns and leaves the room, with Chris scowling after him.

“Dad!” Allison says immediately, still gaping. “You – you and Peter Hale?”

“You heard that?” Chris asks, and swears, rubbing both hands over his head. “Look, it was a long time ago. We just had – it was just a fling when we were too young and stupid to know better.”

That makes perfect sense to Stiles, but Allison is pissed. Stiles can’t figure out why until she opens her mouth and spits out, “All these years you told me that werewolves were just monsters, that they weren’t human, and you _dated_ one? You told me I couldn’t ever see my best friend again because she _happened_ to be a banshee, even though she could have hurt me or someone else any time in the three years we knew each other and never did, but _you_ get away with fucking a werewolf?”

“Language, Allison, for God’s sake – ” Chris quickly sees that this isn’t going to get him anywhere. “It was a mistake.”

“Dating Peter Hale was a mistake?” Allison asks. “Or telling me that werewolves are monsters was a mistake?”

Chris hesitates. “I don’t expect you to understand – ”

“Oh, I do understand,” Allison says. “I understand perfectly. You were in love with someone but your dad didn’t like it, so you broke it off with him and spent the next sixteen years hiding behind Captain Argent and his bullshit monster rhetoric. You’ve known all your life that he’s the monster, but you never said or did anything about it because you’re a God damned coward. And because of that, I lost someone that I cared about. Me and everyone else in this Godforsaken town.” She stands up and flounces out of the room.

“Allison, don’t – don’t do anything – shit!” Chris goes after her, leaving Stiles alone in the room, confused, worried, but somehow proud beyond belief. His little sister has come a long way.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The pack celebrates Erica and Boyd’s rescue with juice and cookies that Malia pilfered from an empty house. Everyone is hugging everyone, and getting along well, and it’s a real breath of relief despite how worried Derek is for Stiles. He’s sure that Stiles is probably fine, but he hates the idea of him being hurt and vulnerable inside that compound.

As the sun sets, Isaac starts building up the fire. Lydia and Cora are cuddling in the corner while Scott gets dinner ready. The spread is pretty thin, but that’s normal. They sit down around the fire, all of them except for Peter, who has stayed apart from the festivities for the most part.

Scott clears his throat as everyone starts to eat. “So, uh . . . I have to say something.” The pack falls silent and turns to look at him. “I’m sorry,” Scott says, directing this to Derek. “I was wrong. I thought I knew better than you did, and I was wrong, and because of that, a lot of people got hurt. I just figured . . . the world couldn’t be as bad as you thought it was. But it is that bad. You were right. I’d say ‘from now on, what you say goes’, but . . . I’d understand if you wanted me to leave.”

Derek studies him in the dim light. Isaac immediately protests. “He can’t make you leave, he – ”

“He’d have every right,” Scott says. “So if that’s his answer, none of you are following me. Okay?”

Derek shakes his head a little. “This pack needs you, Scott. It needs you to . . . care about them, in ways that I can’t, because . . . because of how much I’ve lost.” He takes a sip of his tea and says, “Of course, it also needs you not to be a stupid butthead.”

Everybody laughs at that, including Scott. He nods and agrees. “From now on, what you say goes.” He quiets down a little and then says, “And . . . Peter was right, too. I _was_ trying to prove that I would be a better alpha. Because I thought letting the betas have what they wanted was important, and it is, but . . . safety is more important.”

Erica nods a little and wipes at her eyes. “I thought you wouldn’t come for us,” she admits. “I thought . . . we had skipped watches, too. It was our fault as much as it was Isaac and Malia’s, as much as it was Scott’s. I figured that we deserved whatever we got.”

Derek reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “We’re a pack,” he says, “and we’re all in this together.”

“You were lucky this time,” Peter says, and Derek sighs but doesn’t protest. “And your celebration is premature. We have yet to see how this is going to affect us in the future, and make no mistake, it will. Stiles might have presented this as a foolproof plan, but if Gerard didn’t know there was a mole before, he certainly does now. Stiles’ ability to help us will probably be considerably hindered after this, and we have to be prepared for that.”

Everyone nods quietly. Derek says, “And as much as I understand tempers were running high the other day, I do not want to hear _anyone_ blaming Stiles for this. For what happened to Erica and Boyd, or for what might happen in the future, if he can’t help us.”

“All right,” Isaac and Malia both say, looking a little shame-faced.

Derek lets out a breath. “I think that’s enough serious talk for now,” he says. “Let’s get some sleep.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris catches up with Allison just as she reaches the inner gate. He gets a hold of her by the wrist, and she whirls around and is clearly about to start screaming in his face. “Allison, calm down,” he says, and when she opens her mouth, he cuts her off. “ _Not here_.”

Allison takes a deep breath and makes an effort to control her temper. “Fine,” she snaps, and starts towards the gate again.

He takes a moment and then decides that trying to keep her on the compound will only make things worse. So he lets her walk, and falls into step beside her. They walk in silence for several minutes, and she heads for the outskirts of town, where it’s quieter.

Finally, Chris says, “It probably won’t surprise you to hear that I’ve never really gotten along with my father. He’s . . . a hard man. A perfectionist. I don’t remember my mother very well. She left not long after Kate was born, never kept in touch. I didn’t blame her. My father is controlling, manipulative. She wanted to get away from him, and she did. I blamed her leaving on him. Not that he cared.

“Understand, I’m not . . . trying to make excuses for some of the things I’ve done. I just want you to understand where I’m coming from. My relationship with my father is . . . complicated. I was terrified of making him angry, but I knew I would never make him happy. He thought I was soft, that I had no potential. And then there was Kate, of course, his golden child, the constant comparison.

“When I was a teenager, I was starting to realize that no matter what I did, it would never be enough. I would never be as good as Kate. When my father was pissed at me, at least I had his attention. So I acted out. I threw it in his face that I knew I was second best. I blew off the stuff he thought was important, did my own thing.

“When I was nineteen . . . I met Peter.”

Chris is quiet for a long minute, thinking back to that day, feeling that ache underneath his breastbone.

“What attracted me to Peter was his _confidence_. He knew exactly who he was and was never afraid to show the world. He was intelligent, charming. Interested in a lot of the same things. And he was a _werewolf_. Of course, my father had drilled it into me my whole life that werewolves were dangerous, that they were just animals. And that just made Peter more attractive to me. That element of danger, of my father’s disapproval.

“We went out a few times. He knew who I was, and he laughed about how my father would react if he found out. He knew exactly what I was doing – that our relationship was a combination of teenaged hormones and teenaged rebellion. And he didn’t care. He thought it was fun. Said his parents probably wouldn’t be any happier about it than my dad would be, him consorting with the enemy.

“Naturally, after a few months someone saw us together and told my dad, and of course he threw a fit. Grounded me for the rest of my life, forbid me from ever seeing Peter again. And I obeyed, for a little while. He was so angry that it was really . . . something else. But eventually he calmed down, we got along for a little while. But then he would piss me off again, make me feel _lesser than_ , and I would run back to Peter to piss my dad off and have Peter reassure me that I wasn’t worthless.”

Allison looks over at her father, then away.

“It went on like that for a while. We’d be off for a few months, then meet up and crash at a hotel and stay there for a week. He went away to college. I met your mother, had you. He had a daughter in there as well, although he gave her up for adoption. Nothing really changed until the war started. We barely saw each other after that, for a couple years. He came to me for help, just before his family was killed, to see if I could smuggle them out of Beacon Hills. I said no. Two days later they were dead, and Peter hasn’t spoken to me since.”

They walk in silence for a minute. Finally, Allison says, “That’s a really interesting story, Dad, but it doesn’t answer any of the questions that I asked you.”

Chris sighs. “I know.”

“Do you think werewolves are monsters?”

“I think . . . that it’s very easy for werewolves to _become_ monsters,” Chris says. “I think they have instincts that can be difficult to control. But I don’t think that they can’t live normal lives. I don’t think that it’s fated that they’ll hurt people.”

“What about banshees?”

“To be honest with you, Allison, I don’t really know much about banshees.”

Allison purses her lips but lets that one go. “So if you don’t believe that all supernatural creatures are monsters by default, why have you let Gerard destroy this town?”

“Honey, I never ‘let’ my father do anything,” Chris says wearily. “And believe it or not, this war was not entirely my father’s doing. There was a long, complicated set of events that led to things getting this bad. Now, did my father help push things along? Sure. And is he at least seventy-five percent responsible for how things are in Beacon Hills? Probably. But I couldn’t have stopped him, Allison.”

“Maybe not,” Allison says, “but you _help_ him. You help train the militia, you lead patrols, and you . . .”

“I did that for you,” Chris says. “For you and Stiles. To keep you safe. Because that was what was most important to me. Knowing that my children would be safe.”

Allison’s quiet for a long moment. “It’s better to be the devil’s right hand than in his path?”

Chris hunches his shoulders. “Something like that, I guess.”

Allison says nothing. Gradually, they start making their way back to the compound.

“Allison,” Chris finally says, “I’m sorry about your friend. I really am. But keeping you safe has always been my priority.”

“I understand,” Allison says.

Somewhat hesitantly, Chris asks, “Are we . . . okay?”

“You and I are okay,” Allison says. “Me and Grandpa . . . not so much.”

Chris sighs. “Allison. There’s nothing we can do about my father.”

Allison again says nothing.

Chris stops walking and takes Allison by the shoulders, making her look at him. “Allison,” he says firmly, “do _not_ try to make trouble with my father. At least, not now. Okay? Not with your brother in the infirmary and my father on the warpath because someone is sneaking out secrets underneath his nose. Do you promise?”

“Okay,” Allison says, and closes her eyes. “I promise.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

 

Stiles is out of the infirmary two days later, and it’s a long two days. Gerard comes in and questions him two more times. Stiles knows that Gerard doesn’t have anything on him. All the components that he used to build the bomb, he signed out separately under three different names. Technically, Braeden captured Scott, not him. But Gerard won’t stop focusing on the fact that Stiles offered to bring Scott to the prison, like he ‘knew what was going to happen’.

Stiles gets self-righteous and indignant and they snipe back and forth and he comes out on top, mostly. But Gerard is obviously suspicious, and it doesn’t look good for the long-term. He’s going to be under a microscope for the next month or two. Possibly longer. And that means he won’t be able to do any of what he’s been doing. No supplies, no patrol schedules, especially no raid warnings.

When the medics clear him, Chris is there to walk him home. Victoria’s made his favorite for dinner, pulling some salmon out of the freezer. Chris tries to present it like it was something Victoria wanted to do for him. The obvious lie would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much.

Allison is quiet and sullen. Chris is clearly trying to pretend that his two children had never found out about his relationship with a werewolf. Stiles doesn’t care because it’s obvious to him how things must have gone, so he doesn’t really have anything to say about it. Over dinner, Chris brings up the subject of the militia and how he thinks Stiles should take a break. He’s clearly geared up for an argument, but Stiles just says, “Yeah, maybe for a little while.”

It’s not like he has a future. It’s not like _any_ of them have a future. If he can’t even help the Hales, what’s the point of any of this?

He reminds himself that the point is Gerard. The goal is always going to be Gerard.

“Can I be excused?” he asks, halfway through his dinner. “I’m still pretty tired.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Chris says. Stiles heads to his room and pretends to sleep.

He won’t be able to see the Hale pack for a long time after this, but he has to go just once more, just to make sure that Erica and Boyd got there safely. So he waits until the house is quiet, waits until he can’t wait anymore, before sneaking out the back. The streets are cold and quiet. The rain has finally stopped.

It’s after midnight when Stiles gets to the abandoned house, but everyone is still up. He’s greeted with a hero’s welcome, hugs and back slaps and kisses on the cheek from the girls. Derek stands at the back of the room, scowling. Stiles doesn’t try to go near him, although he offers him a small smile. Erica and Boyd are okay, the pack is back together again. Everything will be all right, somehow.

“So, uh . . .” he says, when the festivities had died down. “I can’t, uh . . . can’t stay. I mean. I can’t risk anyone noticing that I’m gone right now.”

“No worries,” Erica says. “But come back soon, yeah?”

“I guess . . .” Stiles rakes a hand through his hair and steels his nerves. “I can’t. I can’t help you anymore. I’m sorry. But Gerard is too close. He knows there’s a mole and he’s going to be watching me. I can’t take any more risks. No more supplies, no more patrol schedules. I just . . . I wish I could keep helping you, but I can’t.”

Scott reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. “It’s okay, dude. We understand,” he says, and several of the others mumble some form of agreement.

Stiles nods and then swallows, feeling tears sting at his eyes. “Derek?” he asks, looking over at him.

Derek’s jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are knit together angrily. “If you’ve done all you can do, we can’t ask for more.”

“Yeah.” Stiles lets out a breath. “Thanks. I mean. I just.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, and abruptly turns and walks away. A moment later, they hear a door slam.

“Sorry about him,” Cora says.

Stiles his head. “It’s fine. So, uh . . .” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.”

There’s a low murmur from the others. Stiles turns around and walks back out of the house. He hunches his shoulders against the chilly wind and tries to hold back his tears, a battle that he ultimately loses.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris is torn between anger and amusement as he heads into his father’s office. He hates it when Gerard summons him like a child. He’s almost entirely sure that Gerard waits until he’s in the middle of one of his classes to demand his attendance. But he passes it off to his right hand man and heads upstairs. Gerard is in the middle of some papers, and says, “Sit down, son,” without looking up. Chris does as he’s told and waits. He knows that Gerard is baiting him by summoning him and then ignoring him. He’s not going to be the one to break.

Finally, Gerard puts down his papers. “I hear that your son is talking about dropping out of the militia.”

“He was seriously injured,” Chris says. “I told him that I wanted him to take a break.”

“Uh huh.” Gerard folds his hands in front of himself. “And I’m sure this his departure has nothing to do with the fact that there’s a mole in our ranks and he wants to leave before he’s caught.”

“I don’t know why the hell you think Stiles is the mole just because the werewolf he brought in got captured on purpose,” Chris says. “That was a complete coincidence.”

“Was it, Chris?” Gerard’s eyebrows go up. “It’s a hell of a coincidence, if so.”

“Look, presuming that I would even agree with you about that, what the hell would Stiles’ motives be for betraying the militia?”

“Why don’t you tell me, son?” Gerard asks.

“If you think that Stiles thinks he’s helping me, or that I planted some seditious ideas in his head, then you’re not paying attention,” Chris says. “He had no idea I had a relationship with Peter until last week, and let me tell you, he was pretty surprised by the news. Now he’ll barely talk to me. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“You brought that on yourself,” Gerard says.

Chris shakes his head, frustrated. He can’t figure out why Gerard is perseverating on this. “Look, I know you don’t like Stiles. I get that, okay? But he’s a good soldier. He’s been a credit to his service. Just let this go.”

“A good soldier?” Gerard snorts. “Your son has always been an ungrateful, unruly brat - ”

Chris loses his temper. “No, he hasn’t! Not until you came to Beacon Hills! Not until . . . you . . .” His voice trails off as the clue Peter had given him smacks him right between the eyes. _You might not like where the rabbit hole leads_ , Peter had said. What had changed when Stiles was twelve? It was the year that Gerard Argent had come back to Beacon Hills. He had come in and out of Chris’ life for years, so he had never stopped to consider that it hadn’t been like that for Stiles. That Stiles had only met Gerard for the first time - presumably - when he was twelve years old.

Who had lived in Beacon Hills in 1999 that Talia Hale would have been afraid to confront? Gerard. Who was known to take murder victims and make their bodies look like they had been killed by werewolves, to stir up fear among the humans? Gerard. Who had profited and benefited immensely  from the chaos that had broken out after the Stilinskis’ murder? Gerard.

Chris sinks down into a chair, mind whirling. Peter had told him to think about why Stiles had never asked him to look into his parents’ murder. How much did Stiles know? Did he even realize why he hated Gerard so much? Everyone agreed that he hadn’t seen anything. What was it about Gerard that had triggered such a change in the preteen?

“Chris,” Gerard says sharply. “Are you listening?”

Chris looks up, looks his father in the eye. “You killed the Stilinskis.”

Gerard blinks. He’s surprised, taken off guard, but there’s no denial in his gaze. “So?”

“You killed the Stilinskis,” Chris says again, as if repetition will make it sink in. “Jesus, Dad. Why?”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “If you really have to know, I’ll tell you. Kate had just killed some young werewolf whose father got all up in arms about it, and she wasn’t as good at covering her tracks back then. Stilinski got onto her somehow. I went to his house to convince him to drop it. He refused.”

“Jesus,” Chris mutters again. “And then you made it look like it had been a werewolf attack, and it turned into a media frenzy.”

“To be honest, I didn’t expect the impact to be quite as far-reaching as it was,” Gerard says with a shrug. “TIME magazine. Kate got a real kick out of that.”

“You’re talking about the murder of two innocent people,” Chris says. “One of them being a civilian. Why did you have to kill her?”

“She saw me,” Gerard says.

“But Stiles didn’t.”

“No, he must have been upstairs with her. I didn’t even realize there was a kid in the house. Sloppy of me, I admit it. I didn’t go there intending to kill anyone. Figured I could just talk to that cop about why getting rid of those filthy animals was the best thing to do, and we could put it behind us. But he got his back up about it.”

“And then . . .” Chris trails off as he puts the pieces together. “The war started and everything went to hell. Did you kill the Hales because they knew?”

“No, Kate just killed the Hales for fun,” Gerard says, then rolls his eyes. “If I’d told her to do that to make sure nobody could talk, she wouldn’t have missed out on the one person who probably did know - probably does know.”

Chris rubs both hands over his face. “Peter Hale kept his mouth shut about it for years for my sake. Because he knew I wouldn’t want to believe it. But then Kate pissed him off by murdering most of his family, so you came in here and cut Beacon Hills off so you could hunt him down and shut his mouth permanently.”

“Well, that was the plan,” Gerard says. “Hasn’t quite worked out that way, though. He’s a slippery son of a bitch, that werewolf of yours.”

Chris has to stop and take a deep breath. “Is that why you think Stiles is the mole? Do you think he realizes?”

“I doubt it.” Gerard gives a shrug. “Probably would’ve said or done something stupid a long time ago, if so.”

Chris isn’t anywhere near sure of that. He knows his son, and he knows that he’s quite capable of playing it close to the vest when he has to. But he certainly isn’t about to say that in front of Gerard. “Then you really just think I have something to do with it.”

Gerard shrugs. “I want Stiles where I can see him, Chris. Put him back in the militia.”

“Or else what?”

“Who knows?” Another shrug. “Accidents happen.”

Chris feels his stomach turn. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Good.” Gerard smiles and claps a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You do that.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris has no idea how to address the subject of going back into the militia with Stiles. He has two weeks of mandatory downtime because of his back injury, so at least he doesn’t have to broach the subject right away. For all his faults, Gerard isn’t trying to override that. But what can he possibly say? Especially knowing what he knows now, that Gerard killed Stiles’ parents, and suspecting that Stiles is aware of that, at least on some level.

He wishes he could talk to Peter. Not just about Stiles and the militia, but about the Stilinskis, about their murder, about how Peter had kept silent about it. Several times, he’s halfway to Deaton’s to leave a message before he remembers the way Peter had looked at him last time, and turns around to head back home. Peter wants nothing to do with him now, and so his desire to discuss things with the werewolf is his own problem.

After the first week has gone by, he finds that he’s worried about Stiles for entirely new reasons. He sleeps too much, drags himself around the house, doesn’t seem to be interested in much of anything. He barely talks to anyone, and from his typically snarky self, that’s a major concern. He’s not eating a lot, either, although that’s probably partly due to inactivity.

Chris tries to engage with him. Invites him to come along on his daily run, or attend one of his marksmanship classes, since he doesn’t need medical clearance for that. But every time, Stiles just says, “No, thanks, Dad,” and continues to mope around.

It gets bad enough that even Victoria expresses some concern, at which point Chris decides he’s had enough. It’s a beautiful spring day, the first of the really nice weather that’s to come, and he says, “Hey, come walk with me.”

“No, thanks,” Stiles says.

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Chris says, getting his son by the elbow. Stiles sighs and trudges along beside him. They head out into the woods, where they’ll have some privacy. Chris has grabbed the bright orange vest that will mark him as a militia member not on patrol, so they don’t have to worry about getting shot.

Stiles doesn’t seem to care about the nice weather. He shoves his hands down into his pockets and walks with his head down. Chris lets him have his silence until they’ve walked a ways from the compound. Then he finds a convenient log and sits down. Stiles sits down next to him.

“Okay,” Chris says. “Real talk. Do you want to go back into the militia? I promise I won’t be angry if you do.”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think it would help. I just . . .”

His voice trails off. Chris waits to see if he’s going to think of something to say, then asks, “What’s going on, Stiles?” He’s careful to keep his voice neutral. He doesn’t want Stiles to think he’s being blamed for any of this.

“It just seems pointless,” Stiles says. “Like Sisyphus and his rock. Things are terrible. They’re always going to be terrible. So what’s the fucking point?”

Chris thinks about this for a minute. “Okay,” he says. “Now, I think I know you pretty well. And you can feel free to tell me that I’m full of shit. But I don’t think that that’s what’s really bothering you. Because that hasn’t changed. Not since your thirteenth birthday. I think something else is going on. Maybe it’s something you don’t want to talk about, and that’s okay. But I want you to know that whatever it is, I’ll listen.”

Stiles nods a little and stares out into the forest. For a long minute, Chris thinks he won’t say anything, and is working himself up to talking about how he has to go back into the militia anyway. But then Stiles says, “The uh, remember the guy I told you about? That I liked? Well, I guess I kind of took your advice. You know. Gave it a whirl. But he, uh, he didn’t want me.”

“Ah,” Chris says. That makes a lot more sense. Teenaged heartbreak and the sting of rejection. He knows full well how the latter feels. He can still remember the look on Peter’s face in the library, telling him that he didn’t love Chris anymore. He reaches out and squeezes Stiles’ shoulder. “That sucks.”

Stiles’ mouth twitches in a little smile. “Yeah. Yeah, it does. Now I’m kind of avoiding him. Which sort of turned into avoiding everyone. And being lonely.”

“Well, there’s no need for that,” Chris says.

“I don’t have any friends, Dad.” Stiles keeps looking out in the forest while he says that. “I have you and Allison, and I thought I might have . . . someone else, but I don’t. Nobody in the militia really likes me. They know that Gerard hates me and that it could be bad news if we became buddies. You know, they work with me when they have to, but . . .”

Chris closes his eyes for a minute, yet again faced with how his toxic relationship with Gerard had poisoned Stiles’ life. He shakes it off. There’s nothing he can do about it. “Maybe you could try going into town with Allison sometimes.”

“The people there don’t like us any better, and you know it. They just hang out with Allison because they don’t want to make us angry, or they think it might get them bonuses.” Stiles shakes his head. “I’d rather be lonely than hang out with people who are fake.”

“I can understand that,” Chris says. “I just don’t like the idea of you being lonely.”

“I know. I just . . .” Stiles says nothing for a long minute. Then he says, “I miss my parents,” and surprises them both by starting to cry. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Chris says, pulling Stiles against his shoulder. His heart aches as Stiles cries, hitching little sobs that he keeps trying to stifle.

“I don’t even know why,” Stiles says. “It’s not like I really knew them. I just, for some reason this past few weeks, I keep wondering what they would say if they were here. What my mom would think of me. If my d-dad would be p-proud of me.” He dissolves into more tears, ugly, noisy sobs that he muffles in Chris’ shirt.

Chris hugs him, hard. He doesn’t say anything until Stiles’ sobs are trailing into sniffles, which takes several minutes. “I didn’t know your parents,” he says. “I never met them. But I can tell you that anyone would be proud to call you their son.”

Stiles manages a wan smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Chris reaches out and tousles his hair. “And you don’t have to be sorry. I know I’m not a replacement for your father. Just the guy who took the job afterwards. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. It’s okay if you still miss them, even if you don’t remember them.”

Stiles knuckles a few tears away and nods. “Thanks.”

“I mean it, though,” Chris says. “You are an amazing guy, Stiles. You’re smart and brave, and you’re loyal and hard-working. Any father would be proud to call you their son. And anybody would be lucky to have you. Either as a friend or as something more.”

“Then why . . .” Stiles swallows. “Why doesn’t he want me?”

“I don’t know, Stiles. But it isn’t a reflection on you. Sometimes, people just . . . don’t fit together.”

“Like you and Peter?”

Chris lets out a breath. “It was a long time ago.”

Stiles draws one knee up to his chest. “What happened?”

Chris sighs. He doesn’t want to talk about it. But he thinks that maybe Stiles deserves to know. “It wasn’t supposed to be serious. It was just . . . physical. It was a way for me to rebel against my father. And when it got serious, when I realized how I felt, I broke it off with him. Then the world went to war, and everything . . . everything changed.”

“Do you wish it could have been different? That you could still be together?”

“I don’t know.” Chris tries to picture it. Picture a life where he and Peter were still together. What would that look like? Would he live in the slums of Beacon Hills with his lover and his children? Would Peter have helped him raise Allison and Stiles? He had no desire to be a father; Chris knew that. What would Allison and Stiles be like, in that universe? “Maybe.”

“He’s still out there, you know,” Stiles says.

“I know.”

“So you could, in theory . . .”

Chris shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way, Stiles.”

Stiles looks over at him. “Did you ever tell him that you loved him?”

Chris doesn’t look back. He’s thinking about Peter saying ‘you do still love me’ and how he hadn’t denied it. But had he ever said it himself? No. That word had been forbidden between the two of them. Until the library, neither of them had ever said it. “No.”

“Maybe you should,” Stiles says. “Maybe it would mean something.”

“You ever heard the phrase ‘a day late and a dollar short’?” Chris asks.

Stiles doesn’t flinch. “You ever hear the phrase ‘better late than never’?”

Chris sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“I just want you to be happy, Dad.”

Chris swings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “You’re a good kid. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Now, let’s go home, see what Vicky’s cooking up for dinner. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

As they’re walking back, Chris takes a deep breath and plunges back in. “But if you wanted to go back into the militia, you know, I’d understand. I’m not always comfortable with it, but I know that it’s helped you a lot.”

Stiles stares straight ahead as he walks. “Gerard put you up to that, huh?”

Chris gives another sigh. “Yeah.”

“He still thinks I’m the mole?”

“I guess he has some suspicions along those lines, yeah.” Chris has started to wonder himself, to be honest. Stiles has always been so vehement about hating werewolves, but doesn’t seem to care that Chris dated one, and is even encouraging him to try to get back together with him. It doesn’t fit. He almost asks, but then doesn’t. If Stiles is the mole, and Chris asks, he’ll just lie. And Chris doesn’t want to hear his son lie to him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW. :)
> 
> It also contains a somewhat graphic discussion of murder as witnessed by a child. :(
> 
> Proceed with caution. <3

 

Derek is moping on top of the remains of the motel they’ve crashed in, and looks up as Cora plops down next to him. “What is it?” he asks.

“Well,” she says evenly, “I’m kind of used to your brooding by now, but the others aren’t inured to it the way I am, and I think you’re scaring them.”

Derek scowls at her reflexively. “I am not _brooding_.”

“Oh yeah, you are,” she says. “You’re yelling at the others more. You frown constantly. You’re being impatient, and that makes you sarcastic, and you are legitimately making the betas uncomfortable. Otherwise I would leave this alone.” She leans into him, nudging his upper arm with her bicep. “You miss Stiles, huh?”

“I don’t – ” Derek breaks off the useless protest. “I’m worried about him.”

“I know. I am, too. I think that Stiles can take care of himself, but we both know how ruthless the Argents can be.” She lets that sit for a minute. “But that’s not why you’re moping around, is it?”

Derek sighs. “I’m an asshole.”

“Well, yeah,” Cora agrees, and he growls at her. “But why do you bring it up?”

Derek’s quiet for a long minute. “If I had said something . . . do you think he would have stayed with us?”

Cora gives him a sideways glance. “By ‘said something’, what exactly do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Derek says. Cora doesn’t dignify that with a response. Derek suspects she’s doing one of those ‘sure I know but you should still say it’ things, so he grits out, “That I, you know, care about him. That I like him. You know.”

“That you’re hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with him?” Cora supplies.

Derek feels his cheeks flush pink. “Whatever.”

“I don’t know, Der. Maybe.”

“I just keep thinking back to that moment. When he looked at me. And I could see that he wanted me to say it. He wanted me to tell him that I didn’t want him to go. That’s what he was waiting for. But I didn’t say it, because . . . I don’t know why not. I just couldn’t. I guess I’m a fucking coward.”

“I don’t think so,” Cora says, nudging him again. “Being frightened and being a coward are two very different things.”

Derek hunches his shoulders inward. “I guess. But it doesn’t matter now, does it. He’s not coming back. I had my chance and I blew it.”

“Maybe you could get a message to him,” Cora suggests. “Dr. Deaton seems to talk to the Argents sometimes.”

“I’m not going to put Dr. Deaton at risk because of my romantic incompetence,” Derek says. “Or Stiles, for that matter.”

They sit quietly for a minute. Cora says, “Scott’s started talking about trying to leave. Now that it’s spring.”

“Yeah, I know.” Derek rubs both hands over his face. “Maybe he’s right. Without Stiles’ help, how long can we last?”

“We made it for years before he started helping us.”

“I know. But things have gotten worse since then. And they’re going to keep getting worse. So maybe Scott is right. Maybe we should try to make a break for it. I guess I’ll talk to Uncle Peter about it, see what he thinks.”

“Okay.” Cora leans over and kisses her brother on the cheek. “Now come downstairs and stop moping. Try to smile at one of the betas. It’ll freak them out and it’ll be hilarious.”

“Brat,” Derek grumbles, but he finds himself smiling anyway.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Allison isn’t any happier than her father to see Stiles back in the militia. She understands why he did it, even without either of them saying anything to her. The more she sits and thinks about it, the more she understands exactly what Stiles is doing.

Stiles had been vehement that he couldn’t risk Gerard finding out what he was doing. But Allison doesn’t think the consequences would have been that severe. A couple people had been caught smuggling supplies before. They got prison time, or more often sentences of manual labor. They didn’t get executed in the square. Even the kind of long-term con that Stiles was running, the worst that would happen would be that he would be thrown out of the militia and exiled to the lower districts.

So what _was_ Stiles so afraid of? Allison wondered, and now she thinks she knows.

It could have been a coincidence that Stiles had brought in a member of the Hale pack who turned out to be a plant. Sure. Someone on the inside, this theoretical mole, could have arranged that. But the safest way to get a plant inside would be to have the mole himself do the dirty work. And Allison doesn’t know that someone would have risked sending a plant in if they couldn’t do it the safest way possible.

It _could_ have been a coincidence. But Allison’s pretty sure it wasn’t.

She’d heard some of the militia talk about it – God knows that Daehler will tell her anything if she bats her eyelashes at him – and everyone seems sorry for Stiles. Even people who were suspicious of him before have eased up in the wake of his injury. They all seem to be under the impression that if the mole had brought in the werewolf, he wouldn’t have been hurt, at least not seriously.

But Allison knows her brother. She knows how deeply his streak of ruthless practicality runs. And she’s one hundred percent sure that he would rather be severely injured by a werewolf than risk exposure. When Stiles set his sights on something, he did whatever it took to reach his goal.

So the question is, what _is_ his goal? And that’s where Allison’s train of logic stops, because she can’t quite figure that out.

Stiles loves their father, she’s sure of that much. But he hates Gerard, and both Victoria and Kate seem to have gone out of their way to make him feel unwanted since the day Chris took him in. He has no reason to be loyal to the family or the militia. But then again, he has no reason to help the townspeople, either. And he certainly has no reason to help the werewolves.

Stiles wouldn’t have been so nervous about his smuggling ring being discovered if it weren’t for the fact that Gerard would have inevitably connected that to the other things Stiles was doing under the table. Giving out the patrol schedule, warning people about the raids. But why? No matter how Allison looks at it, it doesn’t make sense.

The conversation with her father had made her realize that the _reason_ it didn’t make sense was because she was looking at it through the wrong lens. She could fully comprehend that Stiles helped innocent townspeople because it was the right thing to do. But up until her father had talked to her about Peter, she hadn’t thought of the werewolves or other supernatural creatures as more innocent townspeople. But what if they were? Or more relevantly, what if Stiles saw them that way? What if Stiles helped the werewolves simply because he felt someone should do it?

A part of her is furious with her brother for keeping secrets from her. But at the same time, she can fully understand why he had done it. He couldn’t take the risk. If Allison reacted badly – if she ran and told Kate or Gerard – Stiles would have been killed. Even if she had accidentally given him away, the result would have been the same.

It went back to that hidden streak of ruthlessness. Her brother would lie, cheat, steal, hurt anybody he had to, if he felt it was necessary. If he felt it was for a good reason.

Allison can’t hate him. But she doesn’t know how to help him, either.

Stiles has been mopey and depressed ever since the incident with the Hale pack, and she doesn’t think it’s because he was injured. She’s pretty sure that he’s upset because he had to stop helping the werewolves. Because he had to stop helping his friends.

Now that she thinks about it, she’s never really seen Stiles associate with anyone in the militia. He doesn’t have any friends there. The closest thing he has to one is Daehler, who only spends time with him in an effort to get close to Allison.

So Stiles is lonely. He misses his friends. Knowing Stiles, he’s cut himself off because he feels like he can’t take the risk anymore. Because he’s too close to being caught.

Well, Allison isn’t going to stand for that. Her brother might be practical, but she can be practical, too.

She spends the afternoon visiting families she knows on the compound. What would werewolves need? She tries to think about it logically. They need to stay warm, just like everybody else. It’s still cold at night. And it’s dark, of course. So she steals firestarters, bottles of kerosene, lantern wicks. It’s easy. Nobody suspects her. She just waits until nobody’s looking before tucking them into her bag.

Werewolves need to eat. They need more protein than humans; she read that somewhere. So she steals bars of cheese, cans of tuna. She steals a couple things from each house that she visits. Canned goods are the easiest. She just grabs a couple cans out of the pantry. Do they need birth control, like humans do? She nabs a box of condoms. They probably need the water purifying tablets, so she takes some of those as well.

By the time dinner rolls around and the militia members are starting to come home and she has to stop, she’s got two backpacks full of supplies. Nobody will miss it. She was careful and spread it around, so if anyone realizes something’s gone, they’ll just assume they used it and don’t remember. She hides the backpacks underneath her bed and goes to help her mother make dinner.

Stiles has evening patrol, so he doesn’t get home until after sunset. Allison waits until after her parents have gone to bed, then lugs the two backpacks into her brother’s room. He’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and obviously not trying to sleep. But he looks up when she comes in and frowns. “What’s all this?”

“Supplies,” she says, hefting one of the bags with a grunt. “I know you can’t get them right now so I took the liberty. Don’t worry; I was careful. I took from people’s houses, not the supply warehouse.” She sees that Stiles is staring at her with his jaw ajar. “I know I can’t go with you because it isn’t safe right now. But you seemed – upset. Lonely. So I thought this might help.”

“It’s not just the supplies,” he says. “I mean . . .”

“It’s the patrol schedule,” she says, and his head snaps up. “And the raids. I know. I know you’re the mole, Stiles. Nothing else makes sense.”

Stiles looks away at this, chewing on his lower lip. “Yeah.”

“I won’t tell anybody,” Allison says, “if you’ll do something for me.” She looks him right in the eye. “I want you to help me find Lydia.”

“That’s easy enough,” he says. “I already know where she is.” He pats the edge of the bed, and she sits down next to him. “She’s okay, Allison. A little rough around the edges, like all of them are, but she’s okay. She’s in a place with people who take care of her.”

Allison swallows hard. A few tears spill over and she wipes them away impatiently. “Does she hate me?”

“Well, I haven’t asked her,” Stiles says, unwilling to speak for Lydia without getting her opinion first, “but I’d be pretty surprised if the answer was yes.” He leans against his sister’s shoulder. “I appreciate the supplies, but . . . you can’t steal from other families long term. You’ll get caught. And besides, that’s not really the reason I went to see them. It’s really the patrol schedule that they need. If I can’t bring them that, there’s no point in going.”

“But don’t you want to see them?” she asks. “They’re your friends, aren’t they?”

“Of course I do. That’s not the point.”

Allison frowns. “But . . . if they’re your friends, won’t they miss you, too? Didn’t they like seeing you? It doesn’t sound like they were just using you.”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess. Maybe.”

“I think you should go see them,” Allison says. “Bring them the stuff I got today, but let them know there won’t be much after this. And just go hang out with them.”

Stiles swallows hard and studies the wall. “What if they don’t want me there?”

“Then they don’t deserve you.” Allison leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “But I don’t think that’s what they’re going to say.”

After a moment, Stiles nods. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe. I guess I might as well take them this stuff. No point in it going to waste, and it’s not like you can put it back.”

He stands up, and Allison stands up with him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” he says.

“What . . . what’s your long-term plan? And don’t tell me that you don’t have one. Because I know you better than that, and you’re smart enough to know that what you’re doing isn’t sustainable over the long-term. Which means that you’ve had some goal, probably from the very beginning, before you even started smuggling stuff out.”

Stiles looks away and rubs a hand over the back of his head. “I don’t think I should tell you, Ally. It isn’t . . . safe. For you to know.”

“You know what, I’m sick of being in the dark because people want to keep me safe,” she replies. “That’s what Dad has done my entire life.”

“Not exactly,” Stiles says. “Dad lied to you – to both of us – about a lot of different things. I’m not lying. I’m just . . . not answering, either.” He huffs out a sigh. “Let me think about it, okay? I think you deserve to know. But . . . I don’t want Gerard to figure out you know and try to hurt you to get the answer.”

Allison opens her mouth to automatically protest that Gerard wouldn’t do that, not to her. But then she realizes that she doesn’t really believe that, not anymore. She swallows hard and says, “Okay.”

“I probably won’t be too long,” Stiles says, “but don’t wait up, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

By the time Stiles has gotten to the abandoned motel where the Hale pack has been staying, he’s lost all confidence that they’re going to want to have anything to do with him. For a minute, Allison’s sisterly love had made him forget that he’s just a tool these people use to stay alive. A tool they’re fond of, maybe, but not one that they’re going to take risks for. Derek had already proven that.

Still, Stiles thinks, he _had_ kind of put Derek on the spot last time. It’s possible that he’s changed his mind. Derek is like that sometimes. And his reentry will certainly be smoothed over by a backpack full of fruit and cheese. That would cheer up any semi-starving werewolf.

So he climbs over the broken glass that used to be a lobby window and heads down the darkened hallway. He can hear noise coming from one of the rooms, low voices, and he’s sure they’ve seen him coming. Nobody will be brushing off the watch schedule after what happened to Erica and Boyd. The majority of the pack is gathered in a large room, what used to be two separate rooms before a wall gave way, curled together for warmth. There’s no good place to light a fire, and the place is chilly. There’s a hole in the ceiling, too, and debris on the floor from where it collapsed. Stiles finds himself hoping the place is structurally sound, although he doubts they intend to stay long. A few of them are on their feet, probably the ones who were on watch.

“Hey, uh, hey guys,” he says. They’re obviously surprised to see him, and the awkwardness he’s feeling intensifies. “I brought, um, a few things. Couldn’t get a lot. I mean, I can’t take supplies directly from the warehouse anymore. This is just some odds and ends I managed to pick up.” He’s not going to tackle the issue of his sister knowing about what’s been going on, not tonight at least. His throat is dry from nervousness, which isn’t helped by the fact that Derek untangles himself from the pile and stands up, studying him with an unreadable expression. “There’s some food in there and, and stuff. I probably won’t be able to do it again. I just thought I’d . . . I know I said that I couldn’t really help anymore, and that’s true. I mean, Gerard is going to figure out what I’m doing, so I can’t . . . warn you about raids or patrols or anything anymore. But is it okay if I still come . . . see you guys sometimes? Just to hang out?”

“Sure!” Scott says, with his sunshine grin, hooking an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “You’re welcome here any time. We’re always glad to see you.”

“It could . . . put you in danger, I mean, if I’m seen . . .” Stiles trails off miserably. What the hell is he doing here? What was he thinking? Derek is still just staring at him with that dark, brooding expression on his face. “So it’s up to you, Derek. If you don’t want me here, I’d understa – ”

He gets that far before Derek grabs him by his shoulders, shoves him up against the wall, and kisses him. He makes a startled ‘mmf!’ noise against Derek’s lips, and he thinks he’s actually going to bruise because Derek isn’t really holding back at all. But that’s a long way away from the top of his mind, because Derek’s body is pressing him into the wall and he’s so warm and he smells really good, and Derek’s lips are mashed up against his and he has no idea what’s happening and it’s _awesome_.

Derek pulls away a moment later, and Stiles half-expects him to apologize or storm off or do something else particularly Derek-esque, but he just looks at Stiles with those beautiful, amazing eyes, stares straight into Stiles’ _soul_ , and then says, “I want you here.”

Stiles grabs Derek around the shoulders and twines a hand into Derek’s hair and goes in for another kiss. It’s just as awkward and inexperienced as the first, and he feels like they’re going to have to practice this a _lot_. He opens his mouth under the pressure of Derek’s lips and feels Derek’s tongue in his mouth and tugs on his hair.

“Ohhhh-kay, so, we’re gonna go,” Cora says, trying not to laugh. “You two, uh, get all this out of your system. We’ll be in another room. Somewhere. You know. Somewhere _not here_.”

“Go,” Derek growls, and he’s got his hands under Stiles’ thighs and has hiked him up against the wall and Stiles is making frantic little whimpering noises that he thinks he’s going to be embarrassed about later. Derek kisses him again, and he grabs at Derek’s shirt, getting it stripped over his head. The pack’s footsteps are retreating and honestly he doesn’t even care.

Derek pulls back a little and starts mouthing wetly at Stiles’ throat. Stiles tosses his head back and moans louder than he meant to. “Do you – want me to slow down?” Derek asks. “I know you haven’t – ”

“Oh my God, are you _kidding me_ ,” Stiles says, and bites Derek’s ear. Derek makes an adorable little high-pitched noise. “I’ve been wanting to do this for months and I’m _dying_.”

“Yeah, okay – ” Derek says, with true eloquence. “Do you want me to – ”

“Whatever you want, I have no idea what I’m doing – ” Stiles starts and then bites out a curse because Derek’s undoing the button of his pants and Derek’s hand is _in his pants_ and it’s extremely possible that he’s died and gone to Heaven. That or he’s having a really good dream and he’s going to wake up with sticky sheets. He’s not sure he cares, though, because Derek’s hand is on his cock and giving it rough little pulls and every one has sparks going all through him. There’s a familiar pool of warmth low in his stomach and he gasps, “Oh, come on, it’s been like four seconds – ”

“It’s okay, we have all night, we can go again,” Derek says, and the fact that Derek wants to do this _again_ has Stiles biting his lips and whimpering and coming in Derek’s hands. He lets his head thump against the wall and just clutches at Derek, who’s still kissing and sucking at his neck. Stiles tries to get himself together enough to return the favor, but his muscles don’t seem to be working. Also, Derek seems pretty content to just keep grinding Stiles into the wall, making choked little noises. His hands suddenly dig in hard enough to leave bruises and he buries his face in Stiles’ neck, shuddering and then going still.

“That was _awesome_ ,” Stiles says, “even though it barely lasted three minutes. We should try to take a little longer next time.”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes out. He lets Stiles down and they slide to the floor.

They _do_ take it slower the next time, and manage to actually get their clothes off, and Derek spends what seems like hours tracing his fingers and tongue along Stiles’ chest and stomach while Stiles rambles encouragement and tugs on Derek’s hair. He almost can’t take the way Derek _looks_ at him, like he’s something to be treasured and protected. It’s even better than the feeling of Derek’s hands on him, even though it hurts a little, in some place deep down inside he’s tried to pretend doesn’t exist.

It’s quiet for a long time afterwards, except for the faint patter of the rain on the roof and the low murmur of voices in the rooms next door. Stiles lays with his eyes closed, feeling Derek’s breath against his throat. He’d be content to spend the rest of his life in this moment.

“Don’t go back there,” Derek finally says, and Stiles opens his eyes to see Derek studying him in the dim light. “Stay with us. With me. Even if we can’t get out of Beacon Hills, I want you here. I want you to stay.”

Stiles sits up and draws his knees to his chest. “I can’t,” he says, looking away.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Derek asks.

“A little bit of both, I guess.” Stiles chews on his lower lip. “I won’t leave the militia. Not until I get my shot at Gerard. I’ve come close a couple times, but he - he doesn’t trust me. I don’t think he realizes what I’m doing - he would have killed me by now if he did - but he knows not to let me too close.”

Derek frowns, and he sits up, too, leaning against the wall. “What do you mean?”

Stiles looks over, a little surprised. Then he looks away. “I guess for some reason I thought you would know, because Peter does. But I guess there’s no reason he would have told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That Gerard killed my parents.”

Derek stares at him with his jaw ajar for a few moments. It’s not like it surprises him that the Argents are killers. Or that Gerard would frame werewolves for something he himself had done. Somehow, what surprises him is Stiles’ matter-of-fact tone, when he can smell the pain and the sorrow rolling off him in waves. He searches for the right question. “How long have you known?”

“Since I met him when I was twelve.” Stiles lets out a breath. “I remember everything about that day, you know. I was only four, but . . . it’s just crystal clear in my memory. My mom was folding laundry upstairs. I kept messing up things she had folded, so she sent me down to annoy my dad. We were playing hide and go seek. I had just hidden. Behind the sofa. You know, he probably would have found me in two seconds, but he would have pretended not to.

“But then the doorbell rang. And my dad called out ‘you just stay where you are, Mieczyslaw, I’m going to find you!’ and he went to answer it. I don’t remember a lot of what was said because I was too young to understand most of it. I remember that the guy talked about werewolves a lot, and my dad was upset. He didn’t get loud about it, but he was just - it was obvious even to me that he thought that the guy was an asshole. And then the guy said . . .” Stiles’ voice wavers, trails off, but then comes back strong. “He said ‘it’s a shame it has to be this way’ and then I heard two loud noises, and a thud. I had no idea what a gunshot was. They never let me watch any violent TV or anything. Then I heard my mom screaming my dad’s name. Another loud noise.” Stiles’ voice has become clipped, short, unemotional. “My mom said . . . I had nightmares about this for years . . . she said ‘Please don’t. I have a little boy.’” Stiles makes a gun with his fingers and pulls the imaginary trigger. “Bang.”

“Jesus,” Derek says, shuddering.

“I heard the guy talking on the phone. ‘I cleaned up your mess, come clean up mine,’ he said. I kept waiting behind the sofa. I had no clue my parents were dead. I didn’t even know what death was. I just waited. Finally the door opened and shut. I waited a while longer. It seems like a long time, although given that I was a toddler it was probably only a few minutes. Then I came out. I found their bodies, but didn’t get it. You know, I didn’t know why they wouldn’t get up. I thought it was a new game, maybe. I lay down with them for a bit. That’s how my clothes got all bloody. Then I got bored and started trying to get them to get up again, and I was still doing that when Kate showed up.”

“Jesus,” Derek says again. “Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

Stiles nods a little. “She took me out of there. I don’t know who snapped the photo. One of the neighbors, I think. She must have gone back later to make it look like werewolves had been there.”

“I don’t get why nobody called the cops,” Derek says.

“Me neither. But I think Gerard handled it somehow. He had friends in high places, even back then. I’m guessing that a lot of what they did was less ‘make it look like a werewolf attack’ and more ‘bribe everyone to bury evidence that said otherwise’.” Stiles takes a deep breath and lets it out, a slow shudder. “Kate took me home, but it was only a couple days before she got sick of me and foisted me off on Chris. And I don’t want you to get the wrong impression - Chris is my dad. He was always good to me, always took care of me, even though I was fucked up beyond belief. I remember that he used to hold me and walk around the house rocking me for hours on end after my nightmares, and there were a lot of nightmares. I don’t think he has any idea who actually killed my parents. I think of Chris as my father, and I love him. And Allison is my sister. Everyone else in that family can go to hell.”

He’s quiet for a minute. Derek lets him have his silence, gather his thoughts.

“After Kate killed your family,” Stiles finally says, “Gerard came back to town. I’m not sure if those two things were related or not. But I met him for the first time and that voice - I would have known it anywhere. I was four years old again, hiding behind that sofa, listening to him kill my parents. And I flipped my shit. I was old enough to know that if I said anything, if I gave away that I knew, I would probably end up another werewolf ‘victim’. But I couldn’t handle it. I ran away from home, I acted out, I got in so much trouble. I beat up the other kids, broke things that the militia had built. I was one pissed off little tween. And then I met you guys. And you helped me. Laura made me realize that I could use the militia. Not just to help you - but to bring down Gerard. And every day since then, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

Derek pulls him into an embrace, cradles him close, strokes his hair. “Okay,” he says, quiet. “Okay.”

Stiles leans against him. “It’s funny, isn’t it? I barely remember my parents, if we’re going to be honest. It’s little things - like the smell of my dad’s aftershave and the feeling of his cheek against mine. The way my mother said my name. I guess I don’t really have a good reason to want to get revenge for them. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense to me.” Derek searches for the words to describe it. “Part of it’s just that you know, intellectually, that they were good people. That they didn’t deserve to die. But part of it is - you’re not just seeking revenge for them. You’re seeking revenge for you. Because what Gerard did left so many scars on your soul. You mourn the loss of the life you could have had with them, even though you don’t really know anything about what that life would have been. You’re an adult now, really, and you’re getting revenge for the four year old that you were, for the child whose life he destroyed.”

Stiles nods, expression pensive. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess maybe that’s it.”

Derek smoothes down his hair again. “I understand why you’re doing it,” he says. “I would do the same thing, if I were you. So it’s not that I don’t want you here. I do. But I understand why you can’t be with us, not yet. That’s okay. I’m okay with it.”

“Thanks.” Stiles swallows hard and nestles into his embrace. Derek’s words have made him think about it in a new way. He’s getting revenge for himself, for what he had lost. Somehow it changes everything. He could never had the life he would have had with his real parents. But at the same time, he feels like they wouldn’t want this for him. That they wouldn’t want him to keep hurting himself to avenge their deaths.

Derek keeps holding him for another minute. “You said Peter knows?”

“Huh? Oh . . .” Stiles shakes off the thoughts. He’ll have to examine them more later. “Yeah. He said something to me once, when I brought the patrol schedule by and nobody else was here. He said . . . I don’t remember exactly. He wanted to know if I could be trusted. And I told him I could be. He asked if it was because of what happened to my parents, and I said yes. After that, he never said anything about me being here. If he hadn’t known what actually happened to them, it wouldn’t make any sense that I wanted to help you because of it, so . . .”

“Yeah.” Derek nods. “Peter’s always played it pretty close to the vest. I just wonder why he never said anything.”

“For the same reason I didn’t.” Stiles shakes his head. “What difference would it make?”

“But back then, after it happened - ”

“It still wouldn’t have mattered. Gerard had everyone important bribed. He was controlling the narrative. The media was crucifying the alphas in the region for ‘letting it happen’. Any attempt to shift blame onto a human - a veteran, a father, a good ol’ boy - would have just looked like they were trying to get revenge by throwing a human under the bus.” Stiles shifts slightly. “I still think Peter might have said something . . . if it hadn’t been for Chris. He knew that Chris wouldn’t have believed it. And that Chris never would have forgiven him for the accusation. If it would have made a difference, maybe he would have risked Chris’ wrath. But the two things together? Forget it.” Stiles gives a shrug and says, “Peter didn’t say anything for the same reason that Peter ever does anything - it wouldn’t have benefited him at all.”

“Fair.” Derek gives a quiet snort. “You have my uncle pegged.”

“He’s a lot like me, in some ways.”

“God forbid.”

“I have the good parts.”

Derek gives another snort. “Oh, that’s okay then.” He lets Stiles go, kisses him on the forehead. “You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“Good.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I might get to the actual prompt soon! =D

 

Allison looks up as Stiles comes into her bedroom the next night, but when she opens her mouth to greet him, he holds a finger over his lips. Then he tosses her a dark bundle. She unfolds it to find a set of fatigues, the same kind she had worn last time he had taken her out. She arches her eyebrows at him. He arches his right back. She points to the door and waits for him to leave before she changes clothes.

The spring night is cool, and she’s glad for the heavy jacket that comes with the outfit. She waits until Stiles speaks, not knowing when it’ll be safe, and that’s not until they’re over the fences and on Beacon Hills’ darkened streets. “So,” he says, “I thought you might like to see an old friend.”

Allison feels like she’s been punched in the gut. “Really?”

“Mm hm.”

It takes Allison a minute to blink back the tears. “Thanks,” she says.

“No problem. You, uh, you helped me out a lot, you know.” Stiles’ cheeks turn faintly pink in the moonlight, and he rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Convincing me to go back there. It was the right thing to do. I don’t care if Gerard catches me anymore.”

“That seems like a poor life decision.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, probably. But you wanted to know what my plan was, and I decided I’d tell you. My plan was to kill Gerard.”

Allison sucks in a breath. She can’t help but think of the grandfather she’s always known, who’s given her treats on her birthday and pulled her pigtails when she was little. But the older and wiser she gets, the more she understands that that’s not Gerard. That’s just a little façade he puts on to keep people from seeing the cold, unforgiving iron underneath. She understands now how much Gerard has hurt her father, and how much he’s hurt Stiles. “Do you – think that will help?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Stiles says, “but it was never about that. You know how my parents died?”

Allison nods. “Yeah.”

“It’s not true. Gerard killed them. Then he blamed it on werewolves and started a war.”

“Oh my God.” Allison has to swallow hard and wrestle it into place. It takes less effort than it should. She can easily picture her grandfather as a cold blooded killer. Too easily. “Why?”

“I’ve never known, to be honest. He and my dad got in an argument. My guess is that it had something to do with Gerard wanting license to hunt down and murder werewolves, and my dad thinking that it wasn’t right. Anyway,” Stiles says, waving this aside because he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, “that’s been my plan for a long time. That I would join the militia and get close to him. Except it hasn’t worked out. Either because Gerard’s afraid that Dad has poisoned me with his pro-werewolf sentiments, or because Gerard is afraid that I know what he did. I’ve never gotten close to him.”

“Maybe I can,” Allison offers.

Stiles immediately shakes his head. “I’m not going to ask you to become a killer for me, Ally.”

She’s quiet for a minute. “Would your parents want you to become one for them?”

Stiles heaves a sigh. “No. Which is part of what I was thinking about all day. After talking about it with Derek. Because they wouldn’t. My dad – he would want _justice_. I know enough about him to know that much. But we can’t put Gerard on trial, you know? And even if I could expose what he did . . .”

“We’ve gone too far,” Allison says, nodding. “It’s like the sinking of the Lusitania.”

“I – what?” Stiles asks. He hasn’t studied his history as much as Allison.

“It was a luxury liner during World War One,” Allison says. “It got sunk by a German submarine, and that galvanized the USA to join the war. Except way, way, way later, divers verified that it was actually carrying a ton of munitions and was a perfectly valid target for the German military.” She shrugs. “But even if we had found that out while the war was still ongoing, everyone was so entrenched in fighting each other that it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“I’ll take your word on it,” Stiles says. “But yeah. So much bad shit has happened since then. Sure, maybe eighty years from, the government will apologize to the werewolves for instituting a campaign to wipe them out. But it won’t help anything now. And in the short term, what are we going to do with Gerard? It’s not like there’s a judge in Beacon Hills anymore. Not besides him.”

“Judge, jury, and executioner,” Allison says, with a sigh. “So what are you thinking?”

“Honestly? ‘The best revenge is living well’,” Stiles says. “I just feel like that’s what my parents would want for me.”

Allison nods. “That makes sense. But I don’t know if it can be accomplished in Beacon Hills.”

“Me neither.” Stiles shakes his head. “I have a thought or two on that, but it can wait until I’m explaining it to the others.” He points to the ruins of a building down the road. “You ready?”

Allison takes a deep breath. “Ready.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek is practically climbing the walls as the sun sets, waiting for Stiles to return. He’s aware that most of the pack find it pretty funny. He doesn’t really care. He just wants to see Stiles again, hates knowing that he’s in a place filled with danger. He wants to wrap himself around Stiles and never let him go. Wants to bury his face in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder and get his scent . . .

These are things he probably should not be thinking about in public. But it’s okay. The pack is in good spirits, helped both by Derek’s attitude and the supplies that Stiles had brought them the previous day. It’s not the usual things – “it’s a long story” had been Stiles’ reply to a query about that – and a fair portion of it is perishable, so they ate well and now they’re rolling around feeling good about everything.

There’s a low whistle from the roof, and then Peter climbs into the room through the window and smirks at Derek. “Your boyfriend is here,” he says, but then the smirk fades. “And he’s not alone.”

Frowning, Derek peeks through the window on the front of the motel to see Stiles approaching. He’s dressed in his fatigues but empty-handed, and there’s a girl walking next to him that he doesn’t recognize. A minute later, Stiles pokes his head in from the hallway. “Hey. Okay if I bring my sister in?”

Derek narrows his eyes, but then nods. “Okay with me, if it’s okay with you.”

Stiles opens the door the rest of the way and let Allison into the room. Derek can tell she’s nervous, from her scent and her elevated heartbeat. “Derek, this is my sister, Allison. Allison, Derek Hale.”

“Hi,” she says, her voice a little high-pitched.

Derek resents her presence, primarily because it’s preoccupying Stiles and he hasn’t been able to give him a kiss hello. So he looks at Stiles and says, “What’s she doing here?”

“Meeting werewolves for the first time,” Stiles says. “Don’t frown so much. You’ll scare her.”

Allison punches Stiles in the arm. “I’m not scared, asshole.”

Stiles grins at her. He looks happy, and that soothes Derek’s temper a bit. He takes her by the elbow and leads her into the double room they’ve been sharing, where the others are sitting around the fire they’ve made, sorting out the day’s spoils. “Hey, guys, this is – ”

“Allison?” Lydia spots them immediately and is on her feet.

“Lydia!” Allison throws herself at the redhead, surprising everybody, particularly Derek. He blinks between Stiles and the two girls as Allison clings to her friend. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so glad that you’re okay – ”

“Hey, hey,” Lydia says, hugging her tightly. “You don’t have to be sorry. I know. I know.”

Derek raises his eyebrows at Stiles. He gives a little shrug. “Old friends. Lost touch when Lydia had to go on the run. Lately, Allison’s been coming to the realization that everything her family says is bullshit. Better late than never, huh?”

“Uh huh.” Derek looks at the two girls again. Then he looks back at Stiles. No one will miss them for a while. He moves in for a kiss, one that Stiles returns with interest. Derek gets a little lost in it, in the feeling of Stiles’ hands in his hair and Stiles’ mouth under his, and only looks up when he hears a couple of the girls giggling. Lydia is still hugging Allison, but there’s a brilliant grin on her face.

“Allison is actually the one who got the supplies I brought yesterday,” Stiles says. “I’m turning her into quite the little klepto.”

Lydia leans in and gives Allison another squeeze, and the other pack members thank her, some politely and some with enthusiasm. Derek sits down and pulls Stiles into his lap. Stiles makes a happy little noise and nestles closer.

“So you guys . . . you all live together?” Allison asks.

Lydia nods. “They took me in after I had to run away. We stick together as much as we can, although we split up occasionally to be safe.”

Allison looks at Stiles. “When did you start bringing them stuff?”

“Almost a year ago now,” Stiles says, and leans up to give Derek a quick kiss. “Derek’s the one who rescued me, that time I ran away. Once I got trained up in the militia, I started helping them avoid the patrols, bringing them food and supplies when I could. I had to stop, though. Gerard’s going to figure it out pretty soon, and I . . . I don’t think I can keep them safe for much longer.”

Allison clutches at Lydia’s hand. “So what are we going to do?”

“The same thing we’ve been doing,” Derek says. “Stay hidden, stay safe.”

Allison nods, but she looks around at the ruins of the motel, and seems skeptical. Derek tries not to scowl because he knows it isn’t her fault.

“Actually,” Stiles says, and lets out a breath, “I think I’ve figured out a way to get us out of here.”

Derek looks at him in surprise. “I thought you didn’t want to. I thought you wanted to stay until . . .” His gaze darts between Stiles and Allison, not sure of what he can and can’t say.

Stiles nods a little, and he’s quiet. “For a long time . . . getting revenge for my parents was the only thing that really mattered to me. I thought that I wouldn’t be able to do anything else, wouldn’t be able to _live_ , until it was done. But I thought about it a lot today, after . . . what happened last night. The truth is, I guess I’ve known a way out for a while. But I didn’t want you guys to leave until I was ready to come with you. I thought I had to stay until Gerard was killed. After what you said, about wanting revenge not just for them but for the person I could have been . . . I realized that I was wrong.” He wipes his eyes. “Because I know that my parents wouldn’t want this for me. They would want their killer brought to justice, yes, but . . . not at so much expense. Even if I found a way to get to him – and I haven’t yet – I’d have to take huge risks. There’s a pretty good chance I’d get myself killed. And they wouldn’t want that. What my parents would want more than anything else would be for me to be happy. I know that somehow.” He swallows hard and continues, “So if we find a way out, I think we should take it. I care more about making sure you guys are safe than I do about killing Gerard.”

Silence falls for a long minute. “So, uh . . . I take it that Gerard killed your parents?” Scott finally asks.

“Yeah. I don’t have a lot of details on why, so don’t ask.” Stiles shrugs. “He thinks I don’t know, but he’s putting pieces together. We need to get out while we still can.”

Derek reaches out and squeezes Stiles’ hand. “So what’s your plan?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “The key is in Kate’s supply runs.” He pulls out of Derek’s arms and rummages around in the backpack he’s wearing, then plunks down a map of Beacon Hills and the surrounding forest. “See, Gerard has snipers in the forest. I know that, but I can’t find out where they’re stationed. But what I did manage to find out is that he pulls them back when Kate comes in with supplies. A lot of people have tried attacking the convoy over the years. Plus he has added security for distribution, because sometimes people get really upset when they find out that their monthly allotment is nothing but canned beans and a couple rolls of toilet paper.” Stiles glances at Allison, but she says nothing. “So for about an hour, from when Kate reaches the gate to when distribution is complete, the militia’s presence on the perimeter is scaled way, way back. And if we can manage to somehow tip him off that someone is planning to attack the convoy – I think Deaton will be able to get that done for us – then he’ll pull everyone back to cover it.”

Everyone is nodding, and Derek’s eyes are bright like he’s just seen hope for the first time in years. “That could actually work.” He glances over at Peter to get his opinion, and sees that his uncle is frowning faintly. But when he sees Derek looking at him, he gives a slight nod, indicating his approval of the plan.

“It won’t be easy,” Stiles warns them. “We’re talking about maybe a thirty or forty mile hike through the wilderness afterwards, with minimal supplies. And of course, we have absolutely no idea what the conditions on the outside are like.”

“What if it really is as bad as Gerard says?” Erica asks. “What if it’s a war zone?”

“Then we’ll have to fight for a new place,” Derek says, and squeezes her hand. “We’ll do it together.”

“I’ll get as many supplies as I can,” Stiles says, “but I have to scale _way_ back if I don’t want to be caught. It’ll be about two weeks to Kate’s next run. So we have time to work it out. But I need to know how many people are going.”

Scott looks around and then says, “My mom will want to come.”

Derek just nods. “Erica, Boyd?”

Boyd shakes his head. “My family is doing okay here. I won’t risk dragging them through the forest and into the mountains.”

“Same,” Erica says. “I love my family and I’ll miss them, but . . .”

“Just remember, there might not be any coming back,” Stiles says, and they both nod.

“I’m coming,” Allison says, squeezing Lydia’s hand.

“Allison . . .” Stiles says.

Allison doesn’t flinch. “Everything my family has ever told me was a lie. Most of what they’ve done has hurt people. Some of them were people I cared about, and a lot of them were people you cared about. I won’t stay here with them.”

Stiles meets her gaze and holds it for a moment, then nods. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter can hear Derek climbing up onto the roof, and he hopes that his aura of strong disinterest will keep Derek from trying to talk to him. It doesn’t. Derek walks over and sits down beside him. “Allison seems okay,” he says, his tone reserved. Peter doesn’t say anything in response, so Derek prompts, “What do you think?”

“About Allison?” Peter asks.

“No, about the price of beans in Peru,” Derek replies, rolling his eyes. “Yes, about Allison. Do you think it’s safe? Her knowing where we are?”

Peter sighs. He knows that this isn’t really what Derek wants to talk about. But he answers the question anyway. “Her reaction to Lydia was genuine. And I think that we can trust Stiles’ judgment.”

“Okay.” Derek looks out over the street. “So, we’re finally going to get out of here.”

“So it would seem.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Peter pretends that he doesn’t have any idea what Derek is talking about. “Can you think of a reason why I wouldn’t be?”

Predictably, Derek gets sick of subtlety quickly. “Let me think. Six foot two, impressively muscled, father of the two people we were just discussing?”

Peter sighs. “If you think that I would find Chris Argent a compelling reason to stay in this hellhole, you’ve got another think coming. Which you probably wouldn’t use.”

“Could you try not being an asshole for two minutes?” Derek growls. “I’m trying to help you here, okay? I mean, you helped me. What you said, about Stiles. You were the one who made me see that pushing him away was only hurting me more.”

“The situations are hardly anything like,” Peter says. “You and Stiles weren’t already in a relationship. It wasn’t already ruined for you. Chris and I are never going to . . .” He stops himself and lets out a sigh. “He gave up what we could have had a long time ago.”

“But did you?” Derek challenges. “Are you just going to give up and walk away? You? All your life, you’ve taken what you wanted. But when it comes to Chris, it’s like you just let how _he_ feels control everything. Why should you let him do that to you?”

“You know, I don’t recall asking for your opinion on this situation,” Peter says, mouth tightening into a snarl.

“You never ask my opinion on anything,” Derek says. “Even on decisions that by all rights I should be the one making. You’ve never asked for anyone’s opinion because you think you’re some sort of God damned genius. But I’m pretty sure that you have a Chris Argent shaped blind spot. I’m pretty sure that I understand what’s happened between the two of you better than you do.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s untrue,” Peter says. “Because if you really understood this, you would know damned well why I’m willing to just walk away.”

“If you would just - ”

“No!” Peter loses his temper. “No, I won’t. I won’t do anything. Because I’m tired of always being the one who has to chase after him. For once in his God damned life, if he wants to be with me, if he really wants that, he’s going to have to be the one to do something about.”

Derek sits there quietly for a minute of silence. “Chris doesn’t know we’re leaving. It might be different if he did.”

“I could have left any time in the last six years, after the others died.” Peter stands up. “If that didn’t matter to him then, I can’t imagine why it would matter now.”

He turns to walk away. Derek calls after him, “I just don’t want you to have any regrets, Uncle Peter.”

“I won’t,” Peter says. “Don’t you worry about me.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The days which had slowly been sliding by start to streak past. Derek has the entire pack gathering supplies. They’re taking more risks than they ever would have before, because he knows that they have to be the ones who get what they’ll need. They can’t rely on Stiles. Not if he wants to be able to maintain his cover and find out exactly when the next supply run is going to be.

So it’s up to the pack. Ideally, the hike to whatever civilization they find should only take a week, but he wants to be prepared for a month, two months, a year. They don’t know if they’ll find civilization at all. He wants to take as much as they can carry.

Before the war, the closest town to Beacon Hills had been about thirty miles to the north. But they can’t go north, because that’s where the mountains are. They have to head south, which means a fifty mile hike. Even on smoother terrain, that will take a few days, and to be honest none of them are conditioned for endurance except Stiles. The werewolves might have the advantage of lycanthropy, but they have a much stronger disadvantage of years of lean rations and poor sleep. None of them are in great shape.

In preparation for the hike, then, it’s not just about finding supplies to bring. Derek wants to get his pack in better shape. He wants to find food. Protein, specifically.

In a way, telling Malia that they’re finally going to get chickens and watching her eyes light up is almost worth it. Telling Lydia that they’ll have to eat it raw doesn’t get quite the same reaction. Werewolves can handle raw meat. Humans can’t. Lydia, then, will get the eggs. Boiling water is safe; roasting chickens is not.

When the proverbial foxes break into the literal hen house, all hell breaks loose. It’s kept by several men in town, and although it’s guarded, nobody’s tried to break into it in a long time. So they’re slow to react, and by the time they get organized, Derek and each of the wolves have had far more than their fair share and Lydia has made off with several dozen eggs.

Derek doesn’t like being a thief, but by this point in his life, he’s beyond caring. The people in Beacon Hills will, for the most part, get their things replaced.

But they have to be careful. A rise in werewolves breaking into houses will get attention. So they eke out supplies a handful at a time. Break into a house and steal one cup of rice and a single potato. Break into another for one orange and a can of beans. Steal matches and water purifier tablets two or three at a time. Pairs of socks. A tarp. A coil of rope. Every household in Beacon Hills is contributing to their supplies.

It’s ridiculous, but it works. With nine people in the pack, they can split into pairs and cover a lot of ground. And the abandoned motel that Deaton had recommended seems safe enough. He wouldn’t stay there more than a couple weeks under normal circumstances, but with freedom on the horizon and a ton of supplies to store, he’ll risk it. He leaves two pack members there all the time, taking shifts to protect their supplies.

The pack doesn’t mind the work because they’re all visibly excited about the possibility of escape. Boyd, Erica, and Lydia all go to spend one last day with their families. Derek knows that what’s going to happen with that will depend a lot on what’s on the outside. If Gerard had one set of lies for the townspeople and one set of lies for the supernatural inhabitants of Beacon Hills, is it possible that he has one for the outside authorities, too? If the world has settled down, and Gerard has simply convinced important people that there’s nothing left of Beacon Hills, they might be able to come back for their families. Derek’s not holding out a lot of hope, but he doesn’t say anything to the pack members who are leaving their family members behind. There’s no point in upsetting them.

Stiles comes by once every few days with the bits and pieces he’s managed to scrounge. Derek is glad they have the motel, instead of the places they’ve stayed before, the warehouses or ruined buildings, because it gives them some small modicum of privacy. He can take Stiles to one of the other rooms and make love to him without anyone intruding. Every time Stiles shows up, he throws himself into Derek’s arms, and it’s like a little of the world has returned to its proper order.

Only this time, Stiles shows up and says, “Hey, I – ” and then cuts off because Derek has taken matters into his own hands. Specifically, he’s taken Stiles into his hands, or more specifically his arms, and is kissing him. Stiles enjoys it for a few moments, then pulls away. “Supply run is going to be in four daaayyyyyys,” he says, moaning out the last word as Derek starts biting at the skin of his neck.

“Great,” Derek says, lifting Stiles up and carrying him into the room across the hall. “We can talk about that in a bit.”

They barely make it through the door before they’re pulling each others’ clothes off, and conversation is suspended. Well, mostly. Stiles talks a _lot_ during sex, and Derek thinks it should be annoying but it’s so _Stiles_ that it isn’t. He just rambles on about how good things feel and how lucky he is and how amazing Derek’s biceps are.

“I’m the lucky one, you know,” Derek says, nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder. “I didn’t think I would ever . . . be able to be with anyone. After what happened.”

They’ve never talked about Kate, and they don’t talk about it now. Stiles rolls onto his side and says, “You deserve someone. And for some reason you picked me. Who am I to argue?”

Derek snorts. “Smug little prick.”

“Oh yeah.” Stiles sits up and pulls his shirt back on. Derek growls in mock protest, but he knows that Stiles can’t stay long. “Four days until Kate leaves. So five until she comes back. Deaton’s going to drop the tip tomorrow, or one of his friends is doing it. Are you guys going to be ready?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be, I think,” Derek says. “We have enough supplies to camp for two weeks if we have to. And we’ve been eating better. Bulking up a bit.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Stiles says, giving Derek’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “We’re going to need to do at least ten miles on the first day if we want to be sure we’re out of range of all the perimeter patrols. Do you think Lydia and Melissa McCall will be up for that?”

“Scott will take charge of his mom, and Cora will take Lydia,” Derek says. “We can carry them if we have to. But I think ten miles is doable. What about your sister?”

“She’s probably in better shape than either of them, to be honest,” Stiles says. “Just because she isn’t in the militia doesn’t mean she’s been sitting on the couch all the time. She does help out with the manual labor, and of course she’s probably healthier, in terms of nutrition, et cetera. I think she’ll be okay. I’ll take charge of her if she’s not.”

“Okay. And I’ll take charge of you.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose at Derek. “Okay,” he says, and leans in for a kiss. “Oh! Before I forget. Brought these for Lydia.” He fishes for his pants and pulls something out of the pockets. “It’s a magnet and a cork. She should be able to make a compass out of it. Only a few guys have them here, since we don’t really need them in town, and I don’t want to raise suspicion by stealing one. But we’ll need one. She’ll know how to do it; she’s a genius.”

“Okay.” Derek takes the items.

“I’d better get going,” Stiles says. He tugs his pants on. “I’ll try to come back again before the supply run, but if I don’t get the chance, I’ll be here at dawn in five days.”

Derek gives him another kiss. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for ... I'm not sure. Gerard being the worst person in the universe, I guess.

 

As their escape creeps closer, Peter finds that he’s starting to think altogether too much about what Derek had said. There probably wasn’t going to be any coming back. Everyone agreed on that. And as much as there’s a part of him that wants to walk away and never look back, he _does_ wonder what Chris would do if he knew they were planning to leave. What he had said to Derek was correct. He could have left at any time. Chris didn’t care then; why would he care now?

Damn Derek anyway, Peter thinks, and resolves not to worry about it. Chris has made his own choices, and he has no right to an opinion on what Peter will or won’t do. If anything, Peter wants to send him a message telling him that he left, that he didn’t care, that Chris should stop thinking about him. But he can’t exactly do that. He supposes Chris will hear about it eventually. He seems to talk to Deaton on occasion.

He’s in the middle of setting down the supplies he’d gotten that day from various households when the door at the front of the motel bangs open. “Need some help here!” Erica shouts, and Peter jogs over to see what’s going on. Erica is supporting Cora, whose shirt is soaked through with blood.

“What happened?” Peter asks. He doesn’t panic, although he does reach for Cora and help her into the ruined lobby.

“Those – fucking wendigoes – ” Cora’s voice is higher-pitched than normal, laced with pain and adrenaline. “Chased us out of district four. I was so busy trying – not to get eaten – didn’t see the patrol.” Her teeth are gritted with pain. “Got me in the shoulder.”

“All right, here,” Peter says, helping her lie down. He uses his claws to slice her shirt away from the wound so he can dig the bullet out. After that, she’ll be able to heal on her own.

But what he sees there makes him pause. “Shit,” he says, under his breath. The wound is small, but there are dark blue lines lacing outward. He leans down and sniffs cautiously.

“What is it?” Erica asks.

“Wolfsbane,” Peter says. “We need to get her to Deaton’s.” He stands up and lifts Cora with him. She gives a faint moan. “Find Derek. Have him meet us there.”

Erica nods and takes off. Peter is left to carry Cora on his own, hoping that he doesn’t run into anyone on the way there. Fortunately, he doesn’t. He comes in through Deaton’s door just as he’s shutting the lights out. “We’re closing for the – ” the veterinarian says, but then he sees Peter and Cora. “Lay her down here.”

Peter does as he’s told. Deaton pushes the shirt away and goes to look at the wound. A slight grimace crosses his face. “What is it?” Peter demands.

“Well,” Deaton says, with his usual level of reserve, “this is Nordic Blue Monkshood. Which means that in order to treat her, I need another bullet of the same kind.”

“Son of a bitch,” Peter says. Cora must have run into one of the Argents themselves. He knows that Kate does still run patrols occasionally. She’s lucky she got off as lightly as she had, in that case. “That might not be possible.”

Deaton doesn’t flinch. “Then she’s going to die.”

Derek comes bursting in through the front door. “What happened?”

“She’s been shot,” Peter says. “Wolfsbane bullet. We need one of the others. Can we get hold of Stiles?”

The color drains out of Derek’s face. He sits down beside Cora and smoothes her hair back out of her forehead. She gives a little whimper and clutches at his hand. “Hey, hey, you’re going to be fine,” he says. “We’ll make sure of it, okay?” He’s quiet for a minute, obviously trying to think. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “He just told me yesterday that he might not be able to come see us again until the day of the supply run. He doesn’t want to take risks right now.”

“Even if you were able to get in touch with him, I’m not sure he would have access,” Deaton says. “These aren’t exactly the standard bullets that they use. I’m sure they’re kept under tight lock and key.”

Derek’s mouth tightens. “Well, it’s the best option we have, so we’ll start there.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris is just finishing up with his classes for the day when he hears his sister talking, bright and cheerful as always. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks, shouldering his rifle and walking over to her. He’s feeling a little cheerful himself. Stiles has been back in the militia for a couple weeks now, and although he’s not thrilled with that, his son has been a lot happier lately. He can’t argue with success.

“Oh, man, Chris, you should have seen it!” Kate says. “I guess there’s some infighting down in the slums, just what you’d expect from these monsters, right? And two werewolves basically ran _right_ into my patrol. Jumped up onto a roof and made a _perfect_ target. It was like a video game, it was so perfect.”

“Bring her in?” Chris asks, feeling his stomach churn a little.

“Nah, she got away,” Kate says. “Her friend helped her out. But I got her with my rifle, so, she won’t be getting up any time soon.”

“Wolfsbane bullets?” Chris asks.

“Yeah. You know I always carry that way.”

“Yeah,” Chris agrees. “Gonna try to track her?”

“Hell yes. She’ll go limping back to her den to die there, and with any luck, they’ll be so focused on their dying sister that they won’t see me coming. You game?”

“No, thanks,” Chris says. “A bloody massacre has always been more your style than mine.”

“Suit yourself.”

Chris ducks into the bathroom and sits down in the stall, holding his head in his hands. He knows that the Hale pack has been feuding with the wendigoes over territory. And he knows that the Ito pack doesn’t usually venture out during daylight. That means that whoever was shot was probably part of Derek’s pack. Part of Peter’s pack. And if it was a girl, that means there are very good odds that it’s either Peter’s niece, or Peter’s daughter.

His hands start to shake. Even if Kate doesn’t track her down – because Chris has faith that the Hales are smart enough not to sit around their own den all sad and vulnerable – she’ll still die. Nordic Blue Monkshood is fatal. More than that, it’s fast. It only takes about twenty-four hours to kill. If they could get in contact with whoever the mole was, they _might_ be able to get a bullet and save her. But it’s a pretty big might.

_You’ve never been willing to take risks for me_ , Peter had said, and Peter was right.

Decision made, Chris stands up and leaves the bathroom. Kate’s busy organizing her raiding party. It’s easy to slip into her office and grab one of the bullets. He pulls his jacket on and walks out of the complex. The day’s light is fading. One of the men at the gate says, “Should we leave a light on for you?” and laughs. His trips out of the complex lately have led to some talk. Most of the guys seem to think he’s cheating on Victoria with someone in town, and he doesn’t care to correct them.

He knows where to go. Kate has no idea, but there’s only one place that the Hale pack would take a wounded beta. He shoves his hands down into his pockets and walks faster. Even if he ran into a patrol, nobody would dare challenge him. But there’s no point in getting cocky.

The front door of Deaton’s is locked, so he knocks. Nobody answers, so he knocks harder. Deaton opens it a minute later and greets Chris with a pleasant smile. “We’re closed for the day, Captain Argent.”

Chris holds up the bullet. “I know.”

Deaton looks surprised, but he stands back to let Chris in, and even gestures for him to proceed into the clinic’s back room. He takes a minute to survey the situation. Cora is lying on the table, her face pale and sweaty, breathing labored. There’s a cloth that’s sticky with dark fluid resting on her shoulder. Peter is sitting beside her, dabbing at her forehead with a clean rag, while Derek paces around the back. Both of them stop in almost comical surprise when they see him.

“I can save her,” Chris says, before they can make any presumptions.

Peter’s face hardens, closes off. “It won’t mean anything, Chris.”

“I know,” Chris says. “Just . . . let me save her.”

“Damn right we’re going to let you save her,” Derek says, stomping over. He’s already got the bullet out of Chris’ hand before Peter can say anything. Chris watches in silence while Peter takes it and Deaton hands over a lighter. A bare moment later, they’re rubbing the ashes into Cora’s wound. She moans a little, but then settles. Peter smoothes back her hair and holds her hand, one thumb rubbing at her knuckles.

Chris watches all this in silence. Peter looks up at him a moment later. “Why are you still here?”

“Jesus, Uncle Peter,” Derek says, and sighs. To Chris, he says, “Thank you.”

Chris gives him a nod. “She should be all right now.” With that, he turns around and leaves Deaton’s.

He’s made it about halfway back when he sees a patrol. But not just any patrol. It’s larger than usual, practically bristling with weapons, and it heads straight for him. He stops walking and lets them surround him in silence.

“Chris, Chris, Chris . . .” Gerard says, shaking his head. “I caught you red-handed.”

Chris closes his eyes for a long minute. “It was a trap, huh? You must’ve gotten tipped off about where the Hales were scrounging. Rather than send a raid, you sent Kate with her wolfsbane and then sent her to brag about it straight into my ear.”

“Probably should’ve seen it coming,” Gerard agrees. “Well, son, I hope it was worth it.”

“Shouldn’t you be raiding their den?” Chris asks.

“They’ve got a warlock on their side, don’t they?” Gerard asks. “A couple of men were following you, but couldn’t figure out where you went. It was like you just vanished. So they’re safe for now. You, on the other hand . . .”

“Are you going to shoot me, or are you going to talk me to death?” Chris asks.

“Oh, I’m not going to shoot you, Chris,” Gerard says. “You’ve been convicted of high treason. That means you get hanged right in the town square. And then, my boy . . . we’ll see if your werewolf friends feel like returning the favor. I hope they do. I really do indeed. Because we’ll be ready for them, when they come for you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is sound asleep when there’s a frantic pounding on his bedroom door, which is then yanked open, and Allison is shaking him. “Stiles – Stiles, wake up, we need – ”

“What?” he asks, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to come back to full coherency. There have been way too many late nights lately. Then he sees the tear streaks on Allison’s face and how pale she is. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Grandpa’s here and he says – he says Dad’s been caught helping werewolves, that – that he’s been convicted of treason – ”

Allison can barely talk, but Stiles has gotten the picture. He throws his blankets off and charges out into the living room in his pajamas. Victoria is sitting on the sofa, her fists tightly clenched in her lap. Gerard is across from her, wearing a smirk. “ – wouldn’t require you to leave the compound,” is what he’s saying as Stiles comes out of his bedroom.

“What’s going on?” Stiles asks.

Victoria’s jaw tightens. “Your father,” she says, her voice calm and even, “was caught helping a werewolf escape a patrol. He’s been convicted of treason and will be dealt with accordingly.”

Stiles doesn’t have to ask what _that_ means. “When?”

“Noon,” Gerard says, and Stiles blanches. That’s less than four hours away. What the hell can he do in four hours? “It’s a little faster than usual, I admit, but I don’t want to give those curs in town any time to assemble any sort of rescue force.”

That’s one hundred percent horseshit, and Stiles knows it. Gerard would _love_ for the werewolves in town to try to rescue Chris. But he’s telling the truth in that he doesn’t want to give them a lot of time to plan how. “What – what did he do?” he asks, mind spinning as he tries to figure this out. Because Chris _doesn’t_ help the werewolves. Stiles wouldn’t have had to do even a quarter of what he’s done in the past year if he did.

“Well, when Kate was on patrol, she managed to shoot a werewolf with one of her wolfsbane bullets,” Gerard says. He’s clearly quite proud of himself for catching Chris in the act of treason, and not at all trying to hide it. “Chris was found taking a bullet from the armory and bringing it to the pack, so they could use that to neutralize the effect.”

“Let me guess,” Stiles says. “Cora or Malia Hale?”

Gerard shrugs. “I don’t think we got a close enough look to identify the werewolf in question.”

Stiles looks at Allison. She stares back helplessly. And Stiles can’t help but wonder if it’s all some sort of trap, some ruse. Is this how Gerard is going to try to get Stiles to admit to being the mole? By accusing his father and executing him for Stiles’ crimes?

“B-But Grandpa, you can’t,” Allison says, her voice trembling. “You can’t just – you can’t execute him. He’s our father.”

“A lot of the people who have been killed by werewolves have been fathers, too,” Gerard says gravely. “Like Stiles’ father.”

Stiles goes white with rage. “Don’t – don’t you _dare_ bring my parents into this,” he chokes out. “Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

“It’s just the truth, son,” Gerard says.

Stiles is an inch away from losing it, and he knows he’s being taunted, knows that Gerard is baiting him. He scrapes up what self-control he has left and spits out, “Yeah, well, the guy you’ve got in jail is no father of mine. He could have gotten me killed the day he helped those mutts rescue their stupid puppies, and then he had the nerve to look me in the eye and tell me that he was trying to protect me? That son of a bitch, you can execute him all day for all I care, I’ll execute him myself, give me the fucking noose and I’ll do it for you.”

Gerard’s mouth curves into a smile. “You know what, Stiles, I think I’ll take you up on that,” he says. “That will make a real impression on the crowd about what we think of traitors.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you at noon,” Stiles shoots back.

Gerard stands up. He doesn’t look at Allison or Stiles. Instead he turns to Victoria and says to her, “It’s a shame it has to be this way.”

Things go fuzzy around Stiles, a little blurry. His heartbeat is suddenly very loud in his ears. His mother is screaming his father’s name. He can smell blood and gunpowder but he doesn’t know what the smells are. Everything is fading in and out with the beat of his pulse.

The door shuts behind Gerard, and Stiles bursts into noisy, messy tears. He sits right down on the floor where he is and starts sobbing into Allison’s shoulder. She hugs him tightly, her fingers digging into his back, clutching at his shirt.

“Pull yourself together,” Victoria snaps, and Stiles tries, his chest heaving as he tries to shove the memories back into the dark hole he normally keeps them in. He hears another door slam, and then Allison is rocking him back and forth.

Gradually, he puts the pieces of the world back together. He pulls away from his sister and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. His entire body is shaking, and he can barely swallow around the lump in his throat. She gets him a glass of water and helps him take small sips. “Are you okay?” she asks, her voice hoarse. She’s been crying, too.

“No,” he says, and wipes his eyes again. “No, I’m not. You?”

Allison shakes her head. “What are we going to do?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles says, “but I know who’s going to help us do it.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

With the supply run now three days away, Derek has declared that their supplies are as good as they’re going to get. He doesn’t want to chance anyone else getting shot when they’re this close to leaving. The idea that they might have to leave someone behind had haunted his dreams the previous night, while he slept in a pile with Cora.

It’s just past dawn when he wakes, and finds her sleeping peacefully. The rest of the pack is gathering around them, cuddled together. He crawls out of the pile to build the fire back up. Deaton had given them some herbs the previous night that he said they could brew into tea that would help Cora build her strength back up.

Malia and Erica are on watch, and he checks in with them briefly to make sure that everything’s okay. He’s not surprised to see that Peter is already up as well, sitting in the front of the one of the rooms down the hall, keeping an eye out the window. “You’re not on watch,” Derek says to his uncle.

“I didn’t particularly feel like sleeping,” Peter says.

Derek sits down next to him. “Chris looked okay last night.”

“Mm,” is all Peter says in reply.

“He didn’t have to do that,” Derek points out. Peter just shrugs. “You know that she’d be dead if it weren’t for her, don’t you? We never could have gotten one of those bullets without him. Not in time, anyway.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Peter says. Since it’s clear that Derek isn’t going to drop it, he says, “Chris could have saved the rest of our family and didn’t. It seems he’s had a change of heart. That’s wonderful for him, but frankly I don’t care.”

Derek looks at him wearily. “You know he did it for you, right?”

“Is that supposed to help? He couldn’t have just decided that he didn’t think yet another innocent child didn’t deserve to get murdered by his sister? I’m not altogether impressed by Chris having done this for me, if we’re going to be one hundred percent honest. It’s not as if – ”

There’s a low whistle, and Malia drops into the room through the hole in the roof. “Stiles is on his way,” she says.

Derek frowns and stands up. “At this time of day?” he says, and Malia just shrugs. The teenager comes jogging down the hall a minute later, and Derek can immediately tell that something is wrong. Stiles is pale, with two spots of color on his cheeks, and he’s out of breath. “What is it?” Derek asks, taking a step toward him.

“Dad – ” Stiles stops to take a breath. “You saw Dad last night? He helped you?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, frowning. “He brought us a wolfsbane bullet after Cora got shot. He saved her life.”

Stiles sinks down onto the stairs and rakes both hands through his hair. “Oh God.” His voice trembles a little.

“What is it?” Derek asks again.

After a minute, Stiles takes a deep breath and manages to get a hold of himself. “Gerard has accused Dad of treason, for stealing from the militia and helping werewolves. So . . . nothing he didn’t technically do, if he took a bullet and gave it to you. And by accused, I mean convicted.” His voice cracks again. “He’s due to be executed at noon.”

“Jesus, that doesn’t give us much time,” Derek says.

“Time to do what?” Peter asks, arching his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, anything,” Derek says, growling at his uncle.

“You want to waltz into the main square in broad daylight to try to get him out of the noose?” Peter sounds skeptical. “It’s a trap. An _obvious_ trap. He isn’t even trying to make it look like anything else. Which is insulting.”

“Can you focus for a minute?” Derek asks.

“I am focused. It’s a trap. Gerard Argent isn’t going to hang his own son.”

“I’ll agree that it’s a trap,” Stiles says, and looks up. “But he absolutely will murder his son if we don’t stop him.”

Derek sits down next to him. He reaches out and squeezes Stiles’ hand. “We’re not going to let that happen, Stiles.”

“I think I can – with Deaton’s help, I can make sure the hanging doesn’t kill him,” Stiles says. “But I don’t know what to do afterwards. They’ll think he’s dead. How am I going to get him off the complex?”

“Well, let’s start with Deaton,” Derek says. “Maybe he’ll have some ideas.”

Stiles nods and takes a deep breath. “Thanks. I know – he’s not your friend – but he’s my father and I – ”

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “Come on, let’s go. Malia, let the others know where we went, stay here with them. Double watch, even during the day.” He’s glad that nobody argues about the watches anymore. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Stiles is on his feet and already at the door. Derek moves to go with him, but then looks at Peter. “Are you coming?”

“I don’t think I will,” Peter says.

“You _son of a bitch_ ,” Stiles spits out, advancing on him. “I don’t give a shit how nasty your breakup with my dad was, he’s still _my dad_. I won’t make you go to the complex or take any risks, but you’re still one of the smartest people I know, so you’re _coming_ to Deaton’s with us to help us figure this out. After everything I’ve done for you and yours over the past six months, you owe me at least that much.”

Peter stares him down for a long minute, then nods. “For you,” he says. “Not for him.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Stiles turns and leaves the room abruptly.

Derek gives Peter an exasperated look. “A little sensitivity towards his feelings would be appreciated.”

“I’ve never been sensitive to anyone’s feelings,” Peter says. “Why start now?” With that parting remark, he follows Stiles outside.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible that I've seen that Sherlock Holmes movie with RDJ one too many times. =D

 

Chris is staring up at the ceiling of his cell, feeling like an idiot, when he hears a voice down the hallway. His son’s voice. It’s a little higher-pitched than normal, tight with worry and anger. “No, I told you, you’re not coming. I don’t want you to have to see him. He’s a liar and a traitor and he’s not our father, so just _stay here_.”

Chris flinches despite himself. He doesn’t care about the militia, doesn’t care about his father or his sister or his wife. But to hear his son say that, to hear that tone of vicious venom in his voice. It hurts more than a knife to the gut.

A minute later, he hears Stiles say, “Open up.”

“You got two minutes,” another voice says. “Hey, was that Allison with you? I bet she’s really upset, huh?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Stiles says, and the door creaks open.

Chris manages to get to his feet before Stiles comes in and shuts the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and starts with, “Stiles, I know that - ”

“No, you don’t, so shut up, because we only have a few minutes here,” Stiles says, so forcefully that Chris actually stops talking, startled. “Allison will be able to keep Daehler occupied but that doesn’t mean that nobody else will come by and I’m not really supposed to be in here. Take your shirt off.”

“What?” Chris asks, baffled.

“Take off your shirt, there’s a harness for you to put on.” Stiles takes a contraption out of his bag and shakes it. It gives a metallic rattle. “This strap here will go under your collar and we’re gonna hook the noose to it so your neck won’t break. Luckily for me, Gerard has decided that I get to be the fucking executioner, because he thinks that’s a great way to keep me in line. What a dick.”

“Where did you get - ”

“Oh my God!” Stiles flails at him, and Chris quickly strips his shirt off and lets Stiles show him how to put the harness on. “It would take too long to explain. Okay. That’ll keep your neck from breaking but it won’t do anything about the suffocation.” He waits until Chris has his shirt back on, then holds out what looks like a leaf. “Okay. Listen to me very closely. Put this underneath your tongue. But do not, I repeat, do _not_ bite down until I get the noose around your neck and we’re ready to drop you. Deaton says it’s fast-acting. Once we’re about to drop you, chew and swallow. Don’t just swallow. Chew it up first. They won’t see, Gerard is going to put a hood over you because he’s afraid you’re going to start a riot or something. It’ll put you under and make it look like you’re dead. Undetectable pulse, et cetera, slow you down enough that the prolonged oxygen deprivation won’t cause brain damage. Understand?”

“Hold the leaf under my tongue, chew and swallow once you get the noose adjusted,” Chris says.

“Yeah. Good. With any luck, you’ll wake up a long way from here.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure yet, Deaton’s probably, we’re still working on that.” Stiles looks over his shoulder. “I have to go. I don’t have much time.”

“Okay. I - ” Chris reaches out and pulls his son into a tight embrace. “I’m really proud of you. Confused as hell, but proud.”

Stiles clings to him, his fingers clutching at the back of Chris’ shirt. In a bare whisper, he says, “Thanks, Dad.”

He’s gone without another word. Chris hears the cell door latch behind him. He puts the leaf underneath his tongue. It doesn’t taste like anything, at least not on the outside. He has no idea what it is, but doesn’t particularly care. Deaton knows his business. If he says this will make him appear dead, he’ll take his word on it. Besides that, he’s sure that Peter has to be behind his sudden salvation, and Peter never does anything halfway. The werewolf has probably planned this out to the eighteenth contingency. Chris wishes that he had done it without getting Stiles involved, but then again, there probably wasn’t any other way. Hopefully, his son’s role is minimal.

It’s been about fifteen more minutes when he hears footsteps outside, and then he hears Daehler say, “Sir.” The door opens again, and Gerard is standing there. Chris refuses to look at him.

“I’m sorry that it’s come to this, Chris,” Gerard says solemnly.

At that moment, Chris really regrets having the leaf in his mouth, because he really wants to ask if that’s what Gerard said to the Stilinskis before he murdered them. But he can’t say anything, so he continues to stare just over Gerard’s shoulder and keep his face expressionless.

“Nothing to say for yourself, hm?” Gerard says, and Chris doesn’t even blink. “Fine, then. Have it your way.” He pulls Chris’ hands around his back and put them in handcuffs. Chris closes his eyes as he feels the steel close around his wrists, but still says nothing. There are so many things that he wishes he could say, that he knows he would probably regret saying later, that he’s almost glad the leaf in his mouth prevents him from talking.

He’s well aware of how Gerard makes a spectacle out of the executions. Everyone in town is required to attend, except for children under the age of ten and their immediate caretakers. He also knows that Gerard is going to go the extra mile for this, both because of the seriousness of the offense and because of Chris’ relationship with him.

The crowd is as loud as ever, jeering and yelling insults. Nobody throws anything, at least. Vegetables don’t last long enough to go rotten in Beacon Hills, and Gerard doesn’t allow for throwing of rocks or sticks because they could start a riot that way. He keeps his head down as they march him through the crowd and up onto the platform.

Gerard starts giving a long-winded speech about how order must be maintained and exceptions could not be made for anybody. Chris closes his eyes and tries not to panic. If he’s going to die, he’s going to face it head on. He can look death in the eye and know that this is a good death. He made a choice and he knew it could result in this, and he has no regrets.

But at the same time, he wants so desperately to be able to talk to Stiles, to be able to find out what’s been going on with his son. It seems like he doesn’t know Stiles at all, but at the same time he feels like he somehow understands him. He understands that Stiles has been a lot more courageous than he has. Even now, he’s able to stand there expressionless while he’s waiting to either execute his own father or pull off the most foolhardy scheme in the universe.

He thinks about all of this while Gerard rambles on, and Stiles puts the hood over his head with hands that are visibly trembling. He feels the noose tighten around his neck and shudders involuntarily, even as he hears a tiny metal click that signifies the harness being attached. He steps onto the trapdoor and feels it creak beneath him.

One last deep breath, and he bites down on the leaf.

The numbness starts instantly in his mouth, spreading down his throat and into his chest. He chews quickly and then swallows it down. By the time the world drops out from underneath him, he can barely feel a thing.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles can’t stop crying while he watches Gerard press his fingers into Chris’ throat. He’s been lying cold and still on the table for several minutes, and even though Stiles _knows_ that it’s just a sham, Chris looks extremely dead, and it’s getting to him. He supposes that’s not a bad thing. Gerard sees emotion as a weakness, and there’s nothing wrong with Gerard thinking that he’s weak.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Gerard finally says, pulling his hand back. “You kicked that trapdoor lever like you meant it.”

“I did mean it,” Stiles says raggedly. “Can I go home now, you piece of shit?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Gerard says. “I think you need to take him down to the morgue. They’re waiting for you.”

Stiles nearly sobs from relief. It was the one thing he couldn’t count on. He’d had to rely entirely on Peter’s estimation of Gerard’s character, on how deeply the old man’s sadism really ran. It was a safe gamble, but it was still a gamble. He had wanted to ask for that duty, but Peter had been right when he said it would only guarantee him not getting it. “Why do you hate me so much?” he asks, his throat raw and aching.

Gerard smiles at him and reaches out to give him a pat on the cheek. “It’s nothing personal, son,” he says, and turns and walks away.

Stiles has to take a few deep breaths to steady his nerves. He has a minute. Allison is going to be sobbing on Kate, to keep her busy. After a minute, Stiles manages to heft his father’s unconscious body into the wheelbarrow provided for the purpose. He reaches out and tries to measure a pulse. Does he feel something faintly fluttering under his fingers? Despite Deaton’s reassuring words, he’s terrified that his father is going to wake up with brain damage from the prolonged oxygen deprivation.

But there’s nothing he can do about it now. Two men have already wrestled Chris into a body bag, so he reaches out and zips it up. Then he starts wheeling it through the compound.

There are plenty of cameras on the compound, but Stiles knows that most of them aren’t turned on during the day. They don’t have enough electricity to keep all of them running all the time. Which means that as long as nobody sees him, it’s safe to wheel his father into the supply warehouse and tuck him away behind the shelves. Everybody will be out in the square, socializing, for at least an hour. Executions are a big event.

He tosses a sheet over Chris and then grabs what he needs. Some bags of potatoes to make it lumpy, a pillow or three to plump things up, and a special package to give it the right smell as it goes into the cremator. They had put it together in town – some pork ribs that Deaton had gotten from one of the townspeople who owed him a favor, and some human hair. Cora had donated hers for the cause, snipping off the last few inches of her ponytail. He had shuffled back onto the complex weighted down with iron, which he had tucked away into the storage warehouse. Chris weighed about a hundred eighty pounds. Nobody will weigh the bag, but a couple bags of potatoes won’t cut it.

Once all of that is inside the body bag, he wheels it down to the morgue. They’re ready for him, but he didn’t take too long. They have no idea. They’re laughing as he approaches, sweating and out of breath. “Little help,” he grunts.

“You don’t want to throw him in there yourself?” one of the men asks.

“This son of a bitch is heavy,” he grunts. They laugh again and move over to help him.

“Good show out there today,” one of them says.

“That’s my dad, asshole,” Stiles says. “Eat a dick and go to hell.”

They get ‘Chris’ tossed into the cremator with a grunt of effort, and Stiles huffs out a quick sigh of relief. That’s one of the hardest things down. He flips off the other men when they make another obnoxious comment, and heads back to the supply warehouse. Chris is still there under the sheet. Stiles winds it around him, making sure that no part of his father is visible. Then he lugs it out behind the warehouse, where the trash bins are.

It’s a terrible idea, but it was literally the only thing they could come up with, when it came to getting Chris off the complex. The trash is taken out at sundown every day, hauled down to the dump. It won’t be a great day for Chris, but he’ll survive it, and the Hales will fish him out of the trash later. He’s not happy with how dangerous that will be for them, either, but after an hour of debate, it was the best solution they could come up with.

He tucks the sonic pulse emitter into the sheets with his father. The battery in it will keep it working for about eight hours, which should be enough time for the werewolves to use the noise to locate him in the dump. That will minimize risk for them.

It takes three tries to heft his father up into the dumpster. Then he jumps in after him and make sure that the fabric covered lump is covered with trash.

He sits down for a long minute before hauling himself out. He ducks back into the warehouse to change into clothes that are less disgusting before heading back to HQ. Allison is in Kate’s office, her eyes red and cheeks tearstained. Stiles wonders how Kate feels about all this. She hasn’t said much today. He thinks Kate loves her brother, but she obviously loves her father more. Or maybe she just loves killing most of all.

“Hey, Allison,” he says gently. “Come on, let’s go.”

Allison snuffles a little and gets to her feet. “Okay. Th-thanks, Aunt Kate. For listening.”

“Any time, honey,” Kate says. “You okay, Stiles?”

“Do I fucking look okay?” Stiles asks her, and then marches out of the room without waiting for a reply. Allison tags along behind her. Stiles takes her hand and gives it a tight squeeze, indicating that everything went to plan. They won’t know for sure that Chris got out safely until that night. For now, they’ve done all they can do.

It takes about ten minutes to walk back to the house. Victoria looks up as they come in through the front door, and her demeanor instantly goes even icier than usual. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles opens his mouth to ask what she means, before he realizes that he knows _exactly_ what she means. He’s Chris’ son, but he’s never been Victoria’s. Now that Chris is gone, why would Victoria continue to let him stay?

It shouldn’t hurt. He’s never thought of Victoria as his mother. But it does. It lodges right in his gut and makes tears sting at his eyes. He takes a deep breath and says, “I just came for some of my things. If that’s okay.”

Victoria just continues to give him a cold look, then nods and says, “Fine.”

Allison looks between the two of them, confusion melting into uncertainty and then transforming into horror. “Mom, you – you can’t just – ”

“It’s fine, Allison.” Stiles walks past her, squeezing her shoulder on the way by. He goes into his room and grabs the duffel bag he’s always used to transport supplies, and starts packing up his clothes and his books. Allison follows him, and opens her mouth to say something. “Don’t,” Stiles says, before she can. “If your mother doesn’t want me here, I don’t want to be here. I’ll get a room at the barracks.”

Allison snuffles a little. “She shouldn’t . . .”

“It doesn’t matter.” Stiles won’t look at her, but he reaches out and grips her hand, trying to silently remind her that they’re going to be leaving in a few days anyway. Leaving all of this behind. “Don’t worry about me, Allison. I’ll be fine.”

Allison takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes, then stands up a little straighter. “Okay. But, uh, I’ll come have lunch with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure.” He gives her a quick embrace. “Let me pack.”

“Okay.”

He comes out of his room a few minutes later, ducks into the bathroom to grab a few things from there. Allison is waiting for him. “I’ll walk with you,” she says, and he nods. He walks past Victoria without saying a word, and Allison follows.

“It’ll be better this way,” Stiles says, keeping his voice low even though there’s nobody else around. “A mole would never move into the barracks, right? He would never want to be so close to the people who could catch him. It’ll divert suspicion. But you’ll have to go check on Dad tonight. I won’t be able to sneak out.”

Allison nods. “What should I tell the others?”

“That I’m fine. Stick to the plan, and I’ll see them when we make the run. The supply run might be delayed because of all this, but frankly I doubt it.”

“Okay.” Allison pulls her jacket around herself a little more tightly. “Derek won’t like it.”

“Just remind him that I know what I’m doing. He’ll get over it. Tell Dad everything, okay? Speaking of things that people won’t like. But . . . to be honest I’d rather not tell him myself, so this sort of works out for me.”

Allison laughs despite herself. “Jerk.”

“Yep.” Stiles leans over and presses a kiss into her temple. “See you at mess tomorrow?” he adds, speaking louder in case anyone is listening.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris wakes up with a jolt and nearly flails his way off the table in an uncoordinated lurch. Somebody grabs him and keeps him on whatever flat surface he’s lying on. His body feels strange, like a marionette where the strings aren’t working properly. “Easy now, Captain,” a calm voice says. “It takes about twenty-four hours for the effects to wear off. Until then, you’re going to be an uncoordinated mess.”

“Meffanfluh,” Chris says, which is interesting, because it’s not at all what he intended to say. He’s a little more eloquent than that under normal circumstances.

“I’m sure,” the voice says, amused. “Your tongue is probably still pretty numb, hm?”

“Uh,” Chris says.

Deaton walks into his field of vision and leans over him. “Are you in any pain?”

“Nuh,” Chris says.

“Okay, good. Your neck’s intact, spine looks good. You’ve got some bruising around your neck but your windpipe wasn’t crushed, obviously. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Can you feel this?”

“Nngk!” Chris responds, as Deaton stabs his hand with a needle.

“Good,” the veterinarian/Druid/sadist says, with a serene smile. “Your ride will be here in a minute. Speaking colloquially, of course.”

Chris closes his eyes and listens to the noise of Deaton moving around the clinic. He doesn’t know what he’ll say to Peter, when he arrives. He’s glad not to be dead, certainly, but he isn’t glad that Peter had dragged his son into this. It would have been better, safer for Stiles, if he had just let his father hang.

“He ready to go?” The voice is surprisingly soft, certainly not the one that Chris expected. He opens his eyes to see Derek Hale standing there.

“He probably won’t be able to walk for about twelve more hours,” Deaton says. “Speech should recover in the next hour or so. You have the mixture I gave you?”

“Yeah.”

“Make sure he gets it every two hours. It’ll prevent any long term damage from the rhododendron.”

“Okay.” Derek walks over to where Chris is still lying immobile on Deaton’s veterinarian table. He takes a hold of Chris by the wrist and hauls him upright without wasting any time on pleasantries. “Thanks for all your help,” he says, and walks out of the clinic without waiting for a reply. Chris tries to stumble along beside him, but his feet just drag along the ground.

It’s completely dark out, and the air has a chill in it. He shivers a little, an involuntary response that overrides the paralytic. “Wez Peer,” he mumbles.

“Quiet,” Derek says. A young woman ducks out of the shadows. Cora. She comes up on Chris’ other side and his gets his arm over her shoulder so she can help Derek support his weight and carry him along. Chris allows this in silence, since Derek obviously worried about being overheard.

They get to what looks like it used to be a convenience store. It's small and dark and the roof is mostly caved in. It isn't the sort of place they stay in often, but Chris guesses that this is the point. It's not a place that anyone will think to look for them, or for anyone. There's nobody else there. "Wez yer pack?" Chris slurs.

"Somewhere else," Derek says. "Somewhere safer. Not that it matters to you."

"Derek," Cora says quietly.

"Wez Peer?" Chris tries again.

"I have no idea, actually," Derek says. "I'm not his baby-sitter. He goes where he wants. For all I know, he's on the moon."

"Derek," Cora says again, this time sounding a little exasperated.

Chris martials some semblance of coherence, even though the words are still coming out somewhat mushy. "Affer getting m'son involl’ed, the leass Peer could do is splain wha's happenin."

"Oh, boy, that is some creative interpretation of the past day's events," Cora says. She crouches down beside Chris. "Okay. Let me see if I have things straight. You decided that you wanted to help me, which, thank you for that, by the way. And then your father decided to hang you, because he's an asshole. Peter couldn't let that happen, so he recruited Stiles to help him get you free. Right?"

Chris nods, wondering why she's summarizing what he already knows.

"Yeah, that's not what happened at all," Cora says. "Stiles has been helping us for months. He decided to rescue you without any help from us, and figured out how to do it mostly his own, too. Our only job was picking you up out of the trash heap where the guys had dumped you, and taking you to Deaton's for recovery."

Chris closes his eyes and wrestles with that. Stiles is the mole after all. “Why would he . . .”

"Look, obviously you're going to have to have a pretty long talk with your kid," Cora says. "I'm not getting involved in that. But don't blame Peter. He didn't want to help you at all, or at least that's what he said. Wouldn't lay money that it's actually true, but he knew it was just a trap for us. He was right about that, I'm sure."

Chris looks between Derek and Cora, not sure of what to say.

"Get some rest," Derek says abruptly. "Stiles will explain everything once he gets here."

"S'not safe," Chris says.

"I think Stiles can be trusted to figure out what is and isn't safe," Derek says. "Now shut up."

Chris does. It's not like he's got a lot of other options. He is tired, and everything hurts. He closes his eyes and waits. He thinks he might even doze off for a little while, because he's not sure what time it is when there's the creak of the door opening and a very familiar voice.

"How is he?"

"Allison?" he asks, trying to sit up and just flopping around like a landed fish. "The hell - what are you - do you have any how dangerous it is to - "

"Dad," Allison says impatiently. "It's fine. Cora and Lydia walked to the edge of the compound to pick me up, and they'll walk me back when I'm done. I was perfectly safe."

"Lydia." Chris sees the redhead standing with Allison, her hand curled around Allison's arm. He's starting to get a clearer picture of what his children have been up to, and it's making his head hurt. "Jesus Christ."

Allison kneels beside him, leans down to kiss him on the forehead. "Hey." Her voice is gentler. "How are you feeling? God, your neck . . ."

Chris hasn't seen himself in a mirror, but he's guessing the marks can't be pretty. "I'm fine," he says. "Just a little sore. Can't move most of my limbs yet but I guess that's an aftereffect of whatever Deaton gave me."

"Rhododendron ponticum," Lydia says, "but he says it was coated in some other things to enhance the effect."

"Well, whatever it was, it seems to have worked," Allison says.

Derek is glaring at her. "Where's Stiles?"

"He couldn't make it." Allison shakes her head. "He's staying in the barracks now and he can't risk being seen leaving. Not so close to the supply run. He says to take care of Dad and stick to the plan, and he'll meet up with you guys when we make the run."

"Staying in the barracks?" Chris asks, looking up. "Why?"

Allison blinks at her father, then looks away. "He couldn't . . . I mean . . ."

Chris closes his eyes. "Your mother."

"Yeah." Allison wipes away a few tears. "I mean, I could have argued with her, but Stiles told me not to. He said it was better this way." She looks over at Derek and says, "He thinks it's better this way, anyway. I mean, a traitor would never move into the barracks, never want to be closer to the people in charge."

"Gerard won't be looking for a traitor anymore," Derek says. "Not now that found one."

"We'll see," Lydia says.

"What do you mean by 'make the run'?" Chris asks.

"We're leaving," Derek says. "We're going to use the return of the supply run as a diversion. Stiles says that almost everyone in the militia will be called back to cover, especially with the rumor that someone's going to attack it. We can get out of the valley. Find somewhere better."

Chris shakes his head. "Getting out of the valley won't bring you somewhere better."

"You know that for a fact?" Lydia asks. "Or have you bought into Gerard's propaganda like everyone else?"

"I saw it," Chris says. "With my own eyes."

"When?" Derek asks.

"When?" Chris echoes.

"Yeah. When? Was it a month ago? A year? A decade? When was the last time you left this godforsaken town?"

Chris sighs and wishes he could move. "Four, maybe five years ago."

"Then things could have changed," Cora says.

"Yes. They might be even worse."

Derek shakes his head. "We don't care. We can't survive here any longer, so we're leaving. Whatever's on the outside, we'll deal with it together, as a pack." He lets out a breath. "We weren't planning on inviting you, but now that this has happened, you're going to have to come along."

"Oh, am I?" Chris asks, somewhat amused by this twenty-something giving him orders.

"Well, it's that or you explain to Stiles and Allison why you'd rather stay here and risk getting caught and hanged. Again."

Chris' mouth tightens. "If they think they're going with you, they've got another think coming."

"You're kidding, right?" Derek asks, his eyebrows going up.

"No, I'm not. I - "

"You can stop right there!" Allison is standing with her hands on her hips and her chin tilted towards the ceiling. "If you think for one minute that you're going to stop Stiles and I from leaving, than _you're_ the one who needs to think twice. You've lied to us our entire lives. About everything. About the _world_. We found a family of our own, and we're going to stay with them. And I don't care what you think about that."

"You don't know what it's like out there," Chris says.

"Neither do you," Allison counters.

"I've been there," Chris says. "Maybe it was a few years ago, but I was there and I saw it. Why do you think I didn't want to smuggle your family out?" he adds, directing the question to Derek. "On the last supply run I went on before Peter asked me for help, I saw werewolf women and children skinned alive and staked out in the streets. I saw witches crushed by the stone tests. I can't - " His voice cracks despite himself. "I can't let you go out there. It's not safe."

There's a ripple of unease in the room. Allison hesitates, and it's clear that she wishes that Stiles was there to offer some advice.

"Then we'll keep going," Derek says. "Until we find somewhere that is."

"It doesn't work like that," Chris says.

Derek shrugs. "We're out of better options. What else do you think we should do? Stay here until we're hunted down?"

"You can do whatever you want," Chris says. "But you're not bringing my children with you. After everything I've done to keep them safe."

"You think they're safe here?" Lydia challenges. "You think Gerard isn't going to keep trying to kill Stiles because he knows that eventually Stiles is going to figure out that Gerard killed his parents? You think they won't eventually figure out that Allison is helping bring us supplies? Do you think that Gerard will hesitate more to hang her in the square than he did you?"

Chris looks at Allison. "You have to stop."

"I won't," Allison says.

"Why not?" Chris asks, frustrated.

"Because I'm going to do what's right." Allison gets to her feet. "And to hell with anyone who tries to stop me. Including you."

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! If you don't follow my tumblr and/or haven't seen it yet, check out [this exciting post](http://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/133743731834/when-a-young-woman-is-found-murdered-on-the)!
> 
> Man, this chapter gave me emotional whiplash. XD

 

It’s sunrise, and it’s cold, and Derek is sulking. He knows that it’s unbecoming. But he misses Stiles, and he’s disappointed that Stiles didn’t come to see them, almost angry. And towing Chris through the darkened streets without knowing whether or not there are any dawn patrols out is unnerving. They had stayed in the convenience store right by the compound because nobody wanted to risk being out on the streets at night if they didn’t have to. Now it’s time to get back to the motel.

There’s barely anything to eat there. Pickings have been lean the last few days, and they long ago finished what Allison had stolen for them. There’s plenty that’s been designated for the run, but Derek hasn’t allowed any of the betas to touch it, so he won’t either.

They need hot water for Deaton’s mixture, though, if they want Chris to recover. So they’ll have to risk lighting a fire. Derek sees that the betas have built one up. “Who’s on watch?” he asks, taking the envelope full of herbs out of his jacket pocket.

“Scott and Lydia on the back, Erica and Isaac on the front,” Malia says.

“Any idea where Peter is?”

Malia shakes her head. “No. He hasn’t been back since you left for Deaton’s with Stiles earlier.”

“Great.” Derek shakes his head and lugs Chris into one of the other rooms, so he can have a little privacy while he recovers. “Bring me a cup of water when it’s hot, will you?”

“Sure,” Malia says. She’s looking at Chris curiously, but not commenting.

Derek wants to throw Chris into a heap and have done with it, but instead lowers him down gently. He’s pissed about Stiles being in danger, but he shouldn’t take that out on Chris. He can’t help but feel like all of this is Chris’ fault, but it isn’t. And Chris saved Cora’s life.

So he lays Chris down and even sticks a pillow underneath his head. A few minutes later, Malia comes in with a cup of water, and Derek mixes it as instructed. It takes some hard shaking to wake Chris up. His hands still aren’t working, so Derek has to prop him up and spoon the tea into his mouth.

“Stiles has been helping us for months,” he says quietly. “Bringing us supplies. He smuggles them from the warehouse by signing them out under a bunch of different names. Says he took months perfecting how to forge the signatures. He gives us the patrol schedule. Tries to warn us about the raids when he can, even though it doesn’t always work out.”

“Why?” Chris finally asks.

“When he was thirteen, he ran away from home. Got picked up by a couple of Ito’s betas, and I got him out of it. And . . .” Derek huffs out a breath. “Because it was the right thing to do. He knows it. You know it, too. That’s why you saved Cora. It just took you a lot longer to get there.”

“I always knew it.” Chris closes his eyes and lets his head rest against the wall. “I just never did anything about it.”

Derek shrugs. “You came through when it mattered.”

“Not according to Peter.”

“Yeah, well, my uncle’s kind of a prick.” Derek continues to spoon the tea into Chris’ mouth. “You broke his heart.”

“I know.” Chris sighs. “He’s got every right to be pissed. To let me hang. I was a selfish son of a bitch, and I used him, and even though he was the best thing that ever happened to me, I never put him first. Not once.”

“Mm,” Derek says, more of a noncommittal noise than an agreement or denial.

“But I wasn’t lying about what’s out there. About why I didn’t help your family escape.”

“I know that,” Derek says evenly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re leaving. And it’s not just because we think it’s better out there. We know it might not be. But it’s a chance to be together. A chance we would never get here.”

Chris glances at him. “You and Stiles, huh?”

“Yeah.” Derek sets down the empty mug. “I love him. I won’t apologize for it.”

“You don’t need to. I’m glad you two found each other.”

“But it would never work. Not here. So we’re leaving. Maybe we’ll find a better place. Maybe we won’t. But either way, we’ll find it together.”

Chris says nothing.

“And, because you’re supposedly dead now, you’re coming too,” Derek says.

Chris opens one eye. “You’re not my alpha, Derek. You don’t get to order me around.”

“I’m not giving you an order. I’m just telling you the way it’s going to be. The decision was kind of made for you, when Gerard tricked you into helping us under his nose and then hanged you in the town square. What are you going to do, stay here? Hide in the shadows by yourself and live off the charity of people in this town? You’re not going to find a lot of that.”

“I can’t go with you,” Chris says.

“Because of Peter?”

Chris nods.

“You know, this is just a thought,” Derek says, “but it seems to have worked pretty well for me and Stiles. You could try telling him how you feel.”

“He doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say,” Chris says. “I can’t blame him for that.”

“So you’re just going to give up?”

“He made it pretty clear how he felt,” Chris says. “I have to respect that.”

“Oh my God,” Derek says, in a manner that he’s clearly picked up from Stiles. That makes Chris’ lips twitch. But his smile fades a moment later when Derek says, “Has it ever occurred to you that that’s the last thing that Peter wants? That what he actually wants is for you to _fight_ for him for once in your life? That all you ever do is let him go? He doesn’t want to be let go, Chris. He wants you to _want_ to be with him. To want it so badly that you would give up anything else, and for you to fucking _act that way_.”

“Well, it’s not like he . . .” Chris’ voice trails off.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that he made that clear, if not in the past few months, then years ago.” Derek shrugs. “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, and God knows I wouldn’t want to try to deal with Peter when he’s in a snit. But if you really love him, if you want to fix your relationship with him, then stop presuming that you can’t.”

Chris sighs. “I’ll think about that.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Derek stands up. “I don’t even know where the jerk is right now. So get some sleep. Hopefully Stiles will make it here before we have to make the run, and he can give you all the details. Because one way or another, we’re leaving, and one way or another, you’re coming with us.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter spends the night in the library, because it’s as far away from their makeshift den as he can get but still a place where they could conceivably find him in an emergency. He has no intention of going back to the den until after noon the next day. The drug that Deaton gave Chris will take about twenty-four hours to wear off, and he doesn’t want to see Chris while he’s still suffering the effects. He doesn’t want to see Chris weak and unable to move, and he doubts that Chris wants to be seen that way either.

He’s aware that his absence is annoying Derek, but he doesn’t particularly care. And he’ll make it up to him. The previous day, the town was basically deserted as everybody went to the square to watch the execution. That made it easy to break into some places and score some valuables. It’s not quite the season for fresh vegetables yet, more’s the pity, but he finds some fresh-baked bread and strawberry preserves. Then he heads down to the town’s fish farm. It’s far too well-guarded under normal circumstances to be worth it, but only two people are there during the execution, and Peter dispatches of them quickly enough. He’s careful not to kill them; that would attract more attention than he wants.

Derek has already said that they’re all going to stay at the den until the run. No more foraging. Which means that the pack is probably hungry. So Peter whistles on his way back, hefting his bag of goodies. He ducks two patrols and comes in through the back.

The pack is gathered in the double room. Chris is there as well, and he looks up as Peter comes in. A series of strange expressions crosses his face. To be fair, all of the pack is somewhat surprised by his appearance. But Peter has no intention of Chris seeing him at his low point again. While everyone was gone the previous day, he had snuck into one of the houses and taken an actual shower. Given himself a haircut and a shave and stolen some clothes. He’s now dressed in a V-neck shirt and a pair of jeans that are only a little bit worn. They’re not a perfect fit, but he’s worn a lot worse.

“Hello, children,” he says, setting down the bags. “I come bearing gifts.”

The betas immediately tear into his offerings. Derek, who seems to understand what Peter is doing, doesn’t admonish them to ration or be careful. He just says, “Hey, make sure everyone gets an equal share,” which is mainly for the benefit of the slower eaters (Lydia) or the painfully polite (Scott).

Still ignoring Chris’ presence, Peter turns to Derek. “Has Stiles checked in?”

The sour expression on Derek’s face is answer enough. “No. He had to send Allison. He’s under too much scrutiny. But things went well. As you can see,” he adds, gesturing to Chris as if his presence isn’t obvious.

“Fair enough,” Peter says.

“Have you eaten?” Derek asks.

“I had my share already, thank you,” Peter says.

Chris gets tired of being ignored and says, “Peter. Can we talk?”

“Certainly,” Peter says, with a winning smile.

“Privately,” Chris adds.

“Do you have something to say that you’re not willing to say in front of the others?” Peter asks, his smile not fading even the slightest.

Chris holds his gaze. “I love you.”

It’s a record scratch moment, to be sure. Half the betas stop with food hanging out of their mouths, and Peter nearly laughs at them. “That’s nice,” he says to Chris.

Derek gives a low growl. “Go find somewhere to talk,” he says to Peter, “or I’ll take the betas and find somewhere else to eat.”

Peter gives a put-upon sigh. “If you insist.” He turns and heads down the hallway. He can hear Chris following him, but doesn’t bother to turn around and look at him until they’re in a room where the door mostly shuts. “Not that I really think we have anything to talk about,” he says, “but Derek can get very touchy about his orders not being followed.”

“I was thinking a lot earlier,” Chris says, ignoring his nonchalant attitude. “About us.”

“There is no us.”

“I want there to be.”

Peter shrugs. “Do you think I care?”

“I know you do,” Chris says. “You’ve always cared, and I’ve always ignored it.” He takes a deep breath. “I know you didn’t want my apology. But I realized I was apologizing for the wrong thing. So I’m going to try again. I’m sorry. That I was a coward. That I used you, and that I never told you how much you meant to me. I’m sorry that I never told you that I love you, and I’m sorry for all the times I made you feel like you weren’t important to me.”

“I felt that way because you acted that way,” Peter replies, careful to keep the edge in his voice, make it seem like none of this matters. He has no intention of letting Chris know how his stomach twists at those words.

“I know. And I’m sorry. It’s not that I didn’t care about you. But I was afraid of it. I was afraid that if I gave everything to you, to us, I would end up with nothing.”

“So now that you have nothing, it’s safe?” Peter asks. “Now that your family has finally proven themselves to be exactly what I always told you they were, now you can love me without reservations? I was your choice of last resort?”

“No! It’s not – ” Chris closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I could stay here, you know. I could fight. I’m good at fighting. And God, someone needs to fight for these people. But that’s not what I’m going to do. It’s not what I _want_ to do. I want to go with you. Wherever it leads. Even if the outside is worse than I can imagine, even if I have to follow you to Hell, I will.”

“That’s very poetic, Christopher,” Peter says, “but it’s not necessary.”

He turns to walk away, but Chris grabs him by the wrist. Peter snarls, but suppresses his instinctual reaction to put Chris through the wall.

“I love you,” Chris says.

“I don’t care,” Peter replies.

“Yes, you do,” Chris says. “You told me to walk away once and I respected that, but maybe I shouldn’t have. I don’t think it’s what you really wanted. I think you wanted me to keep going. To fight for you. Like I always should have fought for you but never did.”

Peter yanks his wrist away. “You don’t know anything about what I want.”

“I do. I know you want me to treat you like you matter. Because that’s something that everyone wants. You want me to want to be with you. You want me to stop putting you in second place. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I don’t care,” Chris says. “I love you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then I’ll prove it. Every day for the rest of our lives, no matter how long or short they’ll be. Because I’m not walking away from you again. I’ve done it too many times.”

Peter can feel his resolve crumbling, and he feels like Chris has been conspiring with someone (Derek, almost certainly Derek), because he’s somehow saying all the right things. He’s saying exactly what Peter wants to hear, what Peter _needs_ to hear. “I don’t believe you,” he repeats, because holding up a wall of denial is all he can think of to do.

“That’s okay,” Chris says. He takes a few steps towards Peter. “I don’t mind. You don’t have to believe me. Just let me show you.”

“I don’t love you,” Peter insists.

“Okay,” Chris says quietly.

“I loved you once. But I don’t now. I probably never will again.”

“Okay,” Chris says again. “I love you anyway.”

Peter stands there, feeling oddly paralyzed as Chris gathers him in an embrace, wraps his arms around Peter and holds him tightly. The warmth and the scent of him is overwhelming. He wants to press into it and stay there forever. He can’t stop his fingers from digging in to Chris’ back, clenching down in the fabric of his shirt. “You’re a son of a bitch,” he mutters.

He can almost feel Chris smiling. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Who told you what to say? It was Derek, right? It must have been Derek. Because he’s the only one would have known.”

“I still meant it.”

“I know you did.” Peter growls and pulls away from him. “You don’t say things you don’t mean. It’s one of your few redeeming qualities.”

“You’re telling me that you value honesty?” Chris is amused. “You’re the biggest liar I’ve ever met.”

“That’s precisely why I value honesty. We can’t all be liars, after all.”

Chris kisses him. It’s soft, and gentle, and sweet. Peter lets him.

When Chris pulls away, Peter says, “You know that you have a lot of groveling to do, right?”

“I do,” Chris says.

“But I suppose you’ll have time, if you’re going to insist on coming with us. Which I’m sure is entirely because of me and has nothing to do with the fact that your two children have orchestrated half of this, and they certainly aren’t going to be left behind.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to choose between you and my children,” Chris says. “I don’t know that I could do that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peter says. “You would choose your children over me in a heartbeat.”

Chris sighs. “I would. But I would regret having to do it for the rest of my life.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. If you’re going to stick around, you might as well make yourself useful. I’m sure you know more about the perimeter than Stiles did, so come with me and look at some maps.”

“Yes, sir,” Chris says, and leans in to press a kiss in Peter’s temple. “Whatever you say.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Staying in the barracks isn’t as bad as it could be. Everybody gives him a wide berth, as if the stain of treason might seep from Chris to Stiles to them. He ignores them. Allison comes and has breakfast with him. He does training exercises and goes on patrol and does his best to portray that he doesn’t care about what anyone else thinks of him. His father is safe. Allison is able to tell him that much. He’ll see him in a few days, when they make the run.

He was very firm about the timing with Derek and the others. The supply truck always left at eight AM, but the time it came back varied. The people on perimeter would radio when it came within sight, which was usually about a half hour before it reached the valley. That gave everyone time to get into position. Stiles is assigned to the contingent that supervises in town, so he’s expected to be in position an hour after the first signal comes in.

“When I don’t show up for that duty, we’re locked in,” he said to Derek. “At that point, my identity as the mole will be blown and even if we don’t leave, I can’t go back to the compound.”

Derek nodded at this, because he would obviously be happier if Stiles never went back to the compound anyway, regardless of what else happens.

“If anything happens – anything at all – that makes you think you might not be prepared to make the run, just – do something drastic. Set a fire, blow up a building. Send some signal to me that means we’re not doing it, and we’ll just pull back and wait for next month.”

He still doesn’t feel _great_ about it, but that’s mostly because it’s been a long week and he’s had ample time to think about all the ways things could go wrong. He forces himself to stop examining it too hard as he goes to check the duty roster to see what his patrol schedule will be the next day.

“Hey, Stiles!” It’s Kate who meets him there, smiling. “I’ve got some good news for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, trying not to let the sarcasm seep into his voice too obviously.

“Supply run goes out tomorrow,” she says, “and you’ve got a place on it.”

Stiles blinks at her. “I – what?”

“Awesome, right? I’ve got a space opened up because Martin took over Chris’ classes, so he can’t go. I talked to Dad, and he agreed that it should be you. I mean, let’s face it, you’ve proven your loyalty about ten times over now, and I know that you’ve wanted to go for a while.”

“Oh, wow,” he says, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “Really? That’s fantastic, Kate. Thank you. Really.”

“Seven AM sharp for prep,” she says, and reaches out to give him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Don’t be late.”

“Roger that,” he says, and watches as she walks away. Then he heads up to his room in the barracks. He kicks off his shoes, flops onto his back, and closes his eyes.

The paranoid part of him immediately assumes that Kate and Gerard know what he’s planning and that the supply run is integral to their escape. But the more logical part of him asserts itself and understands that this probably isn’t true. It’s possible, he supposes, but they’ve had ample opportunity to use the supply run as means to escape before and never done it. No, far more likely is that they’re using the supply run as a way to get him off the compound and away from witnesses so they can kill him. Claw up the body and talk about what a martyr he was, poor Stiles Stilinski-Argent, murdered by werewolves just like his parents, loyal to the Argent regime to the end. They’ll probably make a hero out of him, which is amusing except for the part where he’s dead.

It’s also possible that they’re baiting him. Trying to see what he does. Gerard is smart enough to know that _Stiles_ is smart enough to see how this is a trap for him. So what will he do? Will he run to his werewolf friends? Make the same mistake as Chris did, and hopefully lead Gerard right to them? Will he try to escape? One way or another, he’s sure that he’s being watched.

It leaves him with few options. The others won’t make the run without him; he’s sure of that much. Derek, Chris, Allison, none of them would. And the more mercenary members of the pack will either be swayed by Scott, whose moral center would never allow them to leave a man behind, or will simply, practically, decide to wait for next month.

If he goes with Kate in the morning, he’d say there’s at least a ninety percent chance he’ll end up dead. He can’t imagine she’s being honest about wanting him along. Everyone else who goes along on the supply run is a seasoned professional with years, decades, of military experience. Which means that one way or another, this is a trap. Even if he shows up and behaves and gives every evidence that he’s a loyal little soldier, they’ll still kill him. Gerard doesn’t like loose ends, and he must be keenly aware that now he’s killed _both_ of Stiles’ fathers. There’s no sense in leaving Stiles alive to decide one day he wants justice.

So he can’t go. He could try to get out of it, but they gave him last minute notice for a reason. There’s no time to fake an illness or an injury that won’t be pitifully obvious. Even if he deliberately made himself sick – which he could easily do with a small dose of wolfsbane – they’ll know he did it to get out of going with her. At that point it’ll be obvious that he knows what they intend, and a liability they can’t afford. He’ll ‘succumb’ to whatever illness he’s suddenly contracted.

Which means that his only real option to save himself is to leave, which is, of course, exactly what they want him to do. They weren’t able to follow Chris because he had gone to Deaton’s, and the extensive wards he had set up around his clinic had prevented them from finding him. Stiles wouldn’t be so lucky. Of course, Kate and Gerard don’t know that for sure, but they’ve clearly decided it’s worth taking a chance. That, or they can ‘catch’ Stiles in the act of treason and execute him just like his father, although likely with less ceremony.

So he can’t leave, and he can’t go with Kate, and he can’t stay.

He has no options whatsoever that don’t end in him getting killed.

He stares up at the insides of his eyelids and wonders what his father would do. Either of them. Tom Stilinski was a man of justice. He would never just run away. And Chris Argent, well, if he was going to go down, he would do it in a blaze of glory.

He needs a weapon.

That’s not so difficult, actually, as long as he doesn’t do it right away. He’ll be issued one for the supply run the next morning. So he can just get up a bit early. Report for duty, get his gun, and go to town. Not literally. Actually, he’ll go to Gerard’s office. Because if he’s going to die, he’s going to take Gerard with him.

Decision made, it would be nice to get some sleep, but that’s obviously not going to happen. It would also be nice to let the others know what’s happening, but he can’t do that either. He’s not going to send Allison back into town. It’s too risky. He’s willing to bet that there are extra patrols out tonight, just in case Stiles somehow slips out without being noticed. He decides to write her a letter instead, letting her know what had happened and what he’s decided to do. He writes it in his code. She’ll be able to break it – or if she can’t, Derek will. But how can he get it to her? He’s sure that Gerard will go through his things, looking for evidence of illicit activities.

He gets up and heads out into the barracks. Matt Daehler’s room is a few doors down. He knocks, and Matt opens it, looking as charming as ever. “Hey, what’s up?” he says.

“I’m going on the supply run tomorrow,” Stiles says, and Matt looks a little surprised. “Will you give this to Allison for me? I’ll be gone before she’s up for the day.”

“Sure,” Matt says, taking the envelope. He’s clearly already thinking of how grateful Allison will be. Hopefully that will override any impulse he has to turn it over as evidence after Stiles gets himself killed.

He goes back to his room and spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking of his parents, thinking of Derek. He wishes there was something he could do, but no matter how hard he thinks, he can’t find a way out of it. Not without risking everyone else. If he goes to the pack, he’ll only get them killed, and he won’t do that.

It’s funny, because a few months previous, he would have been more than willing to lay down his life if it meant stopping Gerard. There were times when his lack of access to weaponry were all that kept him from trying. Death in the quest for revenge didn’t seem like that great a penalty to pay, especially when ‘revenge’ came along with, hopefully, freeing a bunch of innocent people from despotic rule.

But things are different now. Not just because of Derek, although the fact that he’ll never get another kiss or spend another minute in the man’s arms practically breaks his resolve. Because of Chris and Allison. They’re on his side now. But he’ll never get a chance to see Chris, to tell him everything that happened, and hear what his father thinks of him.

At six o’clock, he rolls over, gets dressed, and leaves the barracks. The armory is just opening for the day. “Starting early, huh?” the man on duty grunts at him.

“I’m going on the supply run for the first time,” Stiles says. “I don’t want to be late.”

The man gives him a rifle and a sidearm. He checks to make sure they’re loaded, and they are. He lets out a quick breath and heads for Gerard’s office. He checks his watch and sees that it’s six twenty. The general himself will be down in ten minutes, if his schedule holds, which it always does.

It would be nice if Gerard knew who had killed him, if Stiles could get off some quippy one-liner before killing the man who killed his parents. But he’d rather not take the risk. He stands right where the door will hide him as it opens, and waits.

At six thirty exactly, the door swings open and Gerard walks in. Stiles waits until it swings shut and he has a clear shot, and then he pulls the trigger.

He knows as soon as he does that something isn’t quite right. There’s the expected bang, the smell of gunpowder, the jerk of the gun in his hand. But it doesn’t feel _quite_ the same as it has in the past, and as he pulls the trigger a second time, Gerard is turning to look at him, with that smile that Stiles hates so much.

Stiles lowers the gun. “Blanks.” He closes his eyes. “You had them give me a gun loaded with blanks.”

“Good thing, too,” Gerard says.

Stiles drops the sidearm and swings the rifle at him. Gerard catches it in one hand and wrenches him around. The fight is short and brutal, and ends with Stiles’ arm throbbing in pain as he’s pinned up against Gerard’s desk with it pulled behind his back.

“Aw, sweetie,” Kate says, as she comes in. “You couldn’t have just led us to your friends? It would’ve been a lot easier that way.”

“Go to hell,” Stiles grits out.

“All right,” Gerard says, “We’ll do this the hard way.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, remember back at the beginning when I put a trigger warning on this story because of a torture scene? Yep, that would be this chapter. Take care of yourselves, everybody!

 

Stiles isn’t surprised to find himself shoved into one of the holding cells. He looks with some trepidation at the electrical equipment. It’s obvious what he’s going to have to do. He needs to give Gerard and Kate just enough information for them to get themselves killed. But he won’t be able to do it right away. If he just gives in, they’ll know he’s lying.

“So, Stiles,” Gerard says.

“Mieczyslaw,” Stiles says coldly.

Gerard gives him a look. “What?”

“My name is Mieczyslaw,” Stiles says. “That’s the name my parents gave me, before you murdered them.”

Gerard shrugs. “You’re a lot like your father, if it helps you to know that. More honor than brains.”

“That could apply to both my fathers, actually,” Stiles says. He wants to tell Gerard that Chris isn’t dead, that he smuggled him out right underneath Gerard’s nose, but he doesn’t. As satisfying as it would be to see the look on Gerard’s face when he got that news, it would only put the others in more danger.

“True,” Gerard says, with a chuckle. “Is that why you started helping the Hales? Because I killed your parents?”

“No,” Stiles says. “I started helping the Hales because Derek helped me after I ran away. _And_ because you killed my parents.”

“Look at it this way,” Gerard says, “your family reunion is coming up.”

“So’s yours,” Stiles says, because what the hell. Gerard’s son isn’t actually dead, but he doesn’t know that.

Gerard doesn’t seem amused, which is nothing new. He beckons to the two men who have been standing silently in the background, and they force Stiles to his knees in front of a tub of water.

“You’re not going to go for waterboarding?” Stiles asks. “It seems more like your style.”

“No point in wasting water, my boy,” Gerard says, and the next thing Stiles knows, he’s underwater. He holds his breath, holds it and holds it and his lungs start to ache and when they pull him up he’s coughing and sputtering.

“So let’s talk about the Hales,” Gerard says.

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, and gasps in a deep breath before he’s underwater again.

It goes on like that for a while. Sometimes he’s underwater for ten or fifteen seconds, sometimes for what feels like an eternity. In between, Gerard asks questions, some of them general, some of them specific. How many people are in the pack, where are they staying, is Derek still the alpha, is Peter Hale part of the pack, has he seen Peter Hale recently. He perseverates on Peter, which Stiles finds somewhat interesting. But he supposes that it makes sense. Out of everyone in the Hale pack, Peter is by far the most dangerous.

A couple of times, he inhales involuntarily, and comes up choking and gagging. His head is pounding and his chest aches. But he won’t beg Gerard to stop, and he won’t tell him anything. Not until he’s sure he’ll be believed.

He takes in a breath of water and for one, serene moment, the pain stops. Everything goes dim and fuzzy and then black.

He jolts back to awareness with someone pounding on his stomach and chest, and he gasps and then pukes up water everywhere. He only barely manages not to choke on it, and winds up curled up on his side, sobbing helplessly.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” It’s Kate, now, gathering him into her arms. “That was close, huh? You’re stubborn. Just like Chris was. Come on, Stiles, don’t make us keep doing this. Just give Dad what he wants.”

“Agh – ” Stiles manages, before he pukes again. He thinks he was about to ask ‘are you kidding me’ but it’s probably better that he didn’t. He can’t believe that Gerard and Kate are good-cop/bad-copping him. It’s a fucking insult. But if they really think he’s that weak, that stupid, then fine. This is his moment. “Can’t,” he wheezes. His chest still aches like crazy, and he’s dizzy.

“Come on, honey,” Kate says. “Just tell us where their den is. That’s all we need.”

“Distillery,” Stiles gasps out. “That old – distillery – west edge of town.”

Kate lets him go, and he hits the floor with a thud, and lays there quietly, trying to breathe. He still feels like he can’t get enough air for some reason. A few minutes later, someone is manhandling him again. They tie his wrists and ankles with zip ties and then put him in the tub on his knees. His wrists are behind his back, chained to the pipe above him, leaving him suspended face down, his face a few inches from the bottom of the tub. When he tries to pull back, they put a rope around his neck and tie it to a weight that they plunk down in front of him.

“Okay, son,” Gerard says, and Stiles tries to say something but just ends up hissing and spitting. “We’re going to get together a team and go take care of the werewolves. You’re going to stay here.” He reaches over and turns the faucet on, just to a trickle. Stiles stares down at the water. “How long do you think it’ll take the water to reach you? An hour, maybe two? I sure hope we’re back by then. If you’re lying to us, and there are no werewolves at that distillery, we’ll have to go looking for them. Why, that could take all day.”

“Not – not lying,” Stiles says. “Swear. I swear.”

“We’ll see,” Gerard says. Then he turns and walks away.

Everything is quiet for a long time. Stiles struggles like crazy, but he’s too weak to get free. He feels strangely sluggish, even though he’s sure adrenaline is coursing through his system, and it still feels hard to breathe. He just wants to lie down. Close his eyes.

He’s done what he can. When they get to the distillery, Kate and Gerard are going to find themselves elbow deep in wendigoes. They aren’t as tough as werewolves, but they’re more vicious, and there are a lot of them. Plus, Gerard and Kate will be packing for werewolves, and silver and wolfsbane have no effect on wendigoes.

If they manage to capture any of the wendigoes, rather than killing them all, or getting killed, then they’ll find the Hales. Even if the Walcotts don’t know where the Hales are staying, he’s sure they could find them using their supernatural senses. So right now, Stiles just has to hope that they all kill each other.

He’s done what he can.

He closes his eyes. A dreamy sort of lassitude overtakes him. He stops noticing the pain in his shoulders and arms, or the ache in his chest. It’s been a long time. The water is only about an inch away from his face now, and the trickle filling it hasn’t slowed a bit.

Outside the room, he hears a voice. Low and quiet, too quiet to recognize through the door. Then there’s a sudden loud thud, and the door opens. Allison is standing there, holding a stun gun, pale and terrified-looking. “Oh my God!” She drops the stun gun and rushes over to him. “Oh my God, Stiles, are you okay?” She hastily turns the faucet off and tries to help him up, but can’t manage to get him free.

“I’m okay,” he says, coughing weakly. “Guard. He’ll have a multi-tool. Or a knife. They almost all carry them.”

“Right.” Allison gets up and goes over to the man she just tased. She comes back with a knife and carefully cuts the rope around his throat, then the zip ties around his wrists and ankles. He’s shaking hard as she gets him out of the tub. On top of everything else, he’s freezing. “Stiles, what happened? Daehler gave me this note but I couldn’t read it so I asked around and they said – you’d been in here for hours and – ”

“No time,” Stiles wheezes. “Have to get to the Hales. Help me.”

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere,” Allison says, but before Stiles can protest, her jaw firms and she says, “We’ll need a car. Let’s go.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“We should not have had sex,” Peter murmurs, studying Chris’ face in the dim light. He’s been memorizing the stubble for the past few minutes. The beard still drives him crazy. “That was a terrible mistake and I’m going to regret it later. I just want you to know that.”

“Mm hm.” Chris rolls on his side so he can study Peter in equal measure. “I gave you every opportunity to say no.”

Peter reaches out and flicks Chris’ nose. “I can’t be held responsible for my actions when you aren’t wearing a shirt. I’m sure that breaks all sorts of international laws.”

Chris looks amused. “True as that may be, you could have said something in between, I don’t know, rounds two and three.”

“After the first two ridiculous orgasms? Are you kidding me?” Peter rolls on top of him and leans down for a kiss. “Who would want to stop after that?”

Chris wraps his arms around Peter’s waist, rubbing a hand up and down his spine. “Well, we have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

“Purely your fault, Christopher,” Peter says in a lofty tone. But then he folds downwards, resting his cheek on Chris’ shoulder. “Nnf. As much as I might enjoy it, I don’t think I’m up to round four quite yet.”

“We’re getting old,” Chris agrees, actively laughing at him now.

“Are you kidding? My stamina is far better now than it was when I was eighteen.” Peter begins to snicker despite himself. “As is yours. I seem to remember a time when all I had to do was _look_ at your cock to get you off.”

Chris is laughing too. “Like the time in the movie theater?”

“Oh, Lord,” Peter says, biting at Chris’ collarbone. “It’s a good thing that place closed or else we’d still be banned.”

“It’s not my fault that you’re so hot,” Chris says, pretending to be grumpy.

Peter has a good retort for that, but then he hears something odd: an engine. The militia uses vehicles, of course, but they’re mainly for transporting troops to and from the perimeter, or moving supplies. It’s unusual to see or hear them in town, especially this part of town, which is largely abandoned. He sits up, tilting his head to one side to try to get a better idea of the distance.

“What is it?” Chris asks.

“A car,” Peter says. “One of the militia’s. About half a mile away, and coming fast.”

Chris immediately grasps the oddity of the situation, and starts fumbling for his clothes. A a few moments later, they’re dressed and they’ve made their way back to the double room. The rest of the pack has gathered there, and Erica is just jogging in from her post on watch. “They’re coming right for us – ” she says, out of breath.

Derek’s jaw tightens, and Peter sees that he doesn’t want to leave the supplies they’ve gathered, with the run so close. That's the only reason the whole pack is at the motel in the middle of the day, even including Melissa McCall. Derek practically has them on lockdown while they wait. “Take your partner and go, be careful, we’ll meet at Deaton’s at dusk. I’m going to stay. Peter – ”

“I’ll stay,” Peter says, as the betas head for the back.

“Wait,” Chris says, glancing out the window. “Jesus – it’s Allison.”

A bare moment later, there’s a screech of brakes, and footsteps outside. Derek opens the door as Allison comes in, supporting Stiles with one arm. The teenager looks awful – pale and weak, lips tinged blue, hair plastered to his forehead. His scent is all wrong. He’s hurt, badly so, but Peter doesn’t see any injuries.

“Dad,” Stiles wheezes, and Chris has both of his children gathered in his arms before he can say anything else, squeezing them tightly.

“What happened?” Derek demands.

“We need – to go,” Stiles says, trying to catch his breath. “Gerard – I sent him to the distillery. If he – catches – any of the Walcotts – they’ll tell him – ”

“Shit,” Derek snarls. “How much time?”

“Don’t know,” Stiles says. He’s not leaving the comforting shelter of his father’s embrace, and Chris’ hand is clutched in the back of Stiles’ sopping wet shirt. Peter can clearly see why he sent Gerard somewhere, and he’s briefly impressed with the teenager for managing to lie to Gerard under those circumstances. “Was a while ago now.”

“What about – ” Cora is looking around at their supplies.

“Forget about it,” Stiles says. “We won’t make the run this month. Not – after what happened.”

Derek nods and says, “We’ll get the details later. Everyone just take what you can carry, take your partner, and go. We’ll meet at Deaton’s in three days. Until then – ”

“If I may propose an alternative,” Peter says, lifting his hand. “If we’re not leaving, at least certainly not this month, and Gerard is on his way to us, most likely after a difficult battle with wendigoes, this is the best chance we will likely ever have to find a more permanent solution for him. To take him on, on our territory, when he will have limited resources.”

Derek looks between Peter and Stiles, clearly wanting the teenager’s opinion. But Stiles doesn’t seem up to giving one. He’s got one hand rubbing his chest and he’s taking short, hitching breaths. It’s obvious from his scent that he’s in pain. So Derek looks back at Peter. “If this is about revenge – ”

“No,” Peter says. “Merely long-term planning.”

Chris surprises him when he comes up behind him, squeezing Peter’s shoulder. “He’s right. We need to deal with Gerard once and for all.” He looks down at Peter. “I assume you have a plan?”

Peter’s mouth curves into a smile. “Why, Christopher, I thought you would never ask . . .”

“Wait, even if the wendigoes kill a bunch of them, won’t they just call for backup?” Lydia asks. “Why are we assuming that they’ll be alone?”

“Oh, they will call for backup, absolutely,” Chris says. “But they won’t wait for it. It takes a team about twenty minutes to get suited up. They’ll come ahead, try to scope the situation out. They don’t know we’ve been warned, so there’s no need to rush, but Kate . . .”

“Rushes,” Derek says, his mouth tightening. “When her blood’s up. She won’t wait for backup.”

“Okay,” Scott says, edging closer to his mother. “What do we do?”

“Well, that depends entirely on Allison here,” Peter says, and most of the betas blink at him. So does Allison. Both Chris and Stiles frown, and Peter is pleased to see that they’ve both immediately boarded his train of thought. “If you’ll allow it, of course,” he adds to Chris.

Chris’ jaw tightens. “What if I said no?”

“Oh, well, I’d do it anyway, but at least I’d be adequately prepared for how much groveling I’d have to do afterwards.”

“Neither of you are making any decisions about me,” Allison snaps. She takes a deep breath. “Peter, what do you need me to do?”

“All I need you to do, darling, is stand right by this window,” Peter says, and gestures, “with my hand around your throat.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters. But when Allison flicks a questioning gaze at him, he nods.

“Okay,” she says, and steps forward. “Let’s do this.”

It takes a minute to get everyone sorted out. Most of the betas, along with Melissa, are shooed off to the rooms at the back of the motel – be ready to come in if there’s a ruckus, Derek tells them, but leave the heavy lifting to the people who are better prepared for it. Several of them are dispatched to the roof to be on watch. Peter quickly outlines his plan and everyone takes their positions. As the minutes tick by, Allison starts to tremble. Peter isn’t sure he loves how long it’s taking either. If Gerard and Kate _do_ choose to wait for backup, then running is the only option they’ll have, if they want to live.

Malia whistles a few minutes later, to indicate that she sees someone coming. Peter’s hand tightens around Allison’s throat, almost involuntarily.

“Hey,” Allison whispers, her voice a little hoarse. “Do you love my father?”

Peter gives her an almost amused look. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Okay,” she says, and her trembling eases.

Malia hasn’t whistled again. That means she’s only spotted the one car. Kate and Gerard – presuming they both lived through the wendigoes – are the only ones on their way. That’s good. He doesn’t see them yet, but they’ve probably taken up cover on the opposite side of the building. Chris had given them a quick tactical assessment, letting them know what Kate and Gerard were most likely to do. If it weren’t for Allison being prominently displayed as bait, they would probably go around to the back, but Kate at least won’t risk that. A minute later, Malia drops down into the room through the hole in the roof. “They went around that building across the street.”

Peter nods. Chris had predicted that; he said that Kate and Gerard would take cover there and try to assess the situation from a distance. They’ve certainly seen him by now, so he sends Malia to safety and then calls out over Allison’s shoulder. “I know you’re out there, so why don’t you come out and we’ll have a nice chat?”

After a moment, Gerard emerges from the ruined building across the street, hoisting his rifle over his shoulder. “I know you won’t kill her,” he says. “You’d lose your human shield.”

“Oh, that’s absolutely true,” Peter says, keeping his tone pleasant. “I would just wound her, severely, forcing you to choose between saving her and coming after me.”

“There are two of us,” Gerard says, as Kate emerges from the building behind him. She’s covered in dark wendigo blood and holding two handguns. “It wouldn’t be much of a choice.”

“That’s true, but I’d much rather take on one of you than both,” Peter says. He gives Allison’s throat a little squeeze and she chokes out a high-pitched noise involuntarily. “But if you’ll just step inside my humble abode, we can talk this over like civilized people.”

Gerard seems to think about this, scanning the surroundings. “First tell me how you captured her.”

“It’s all her own fault, very sad,” Peter says, laughing. “She came to me for help after you decided to murder your own son and she couldn’t find a way to stop you. I didn’t help, of course, because I wasn’t about to risk my own skin for that bastard, but I gave her just enough to trust me. So when you decided to do the same to her brother today, she came to me again. I knew it was only a matter of time before you got here.”

“And for some reason you want to talk,” Gerard says.

“Well, I’d like to propose an exchange,” Peter says. “I’ll tell you where you can find Derek . . . if you’ll give me a few other things.”

“Like my daughter?”

“Please, I don’t care about your daughter,” Peter says. He squeezes Allison’s throat hard, and she makes another choked noise. “Are you coming in or aren’t you?”

Gerard nods and walks forward. Kate goes with him, but she ranges out to the side, covering him in case any of the werewolves are on the perimeter. She’s a little battered but not severely wounded, and Gerard doesn’t have a mark on him. Peter assumes that the two of them probably pulled out as soon as they realized Stiles had tricked them, leaving their men to get slaughtered by flesh-eating monsters. It seems like them. They had obviously gotten at least one of the Walcotts to tell them where the Hale pack was holed up, but they don’t seem to have brought him with them.

Peter keeps a close eye on them as they enter through the lobby, and then moves over to the corner so they won’t be able to get behind him. They come into the hotel room a minute later and look around somewhat skeptically. “Nice place you got here, Hale,” Gerard says. “Looks like it could collapse any minute.”

“Yes, better digs is indeed on my list of demands,” Peter says. “Kate, darling, how are you? I lied, by the way, and I do intend to kill you at my soonest opportunity.”

“That ought to be fun,” Kate says, smirking. “What else are your demands?”

“I really only have one, which is to get out of this hell hole, but I know you aren’t going to let me do that,” Peter says. “God forbid I tell everyone that the entire war they’ve been fighting was based on a lied you’ve told. So if I can’t have that, I expect to be compensated for my silence. Which, to be honest, you could have just done from the beginning. It would have been a lot easier, though I suppose you enjoy being a tinpot dictator.” He’s walking as he talks, sliding along the wall to get closer to the exit. The point is to get Gerard to the right place, not get out of the room – but Gerard doesn’t know that. “So, my demands. A house with four walls and a roof. First pick of the supplies every month. Guaranteed immunity from the patrols, of course. That ought to do for a start.”

“You know, now that I’m thinking about it,” Gerard says, “I don’t give a damn about your demands.”

He has his rifle aimed a moment later, and Peter has time to marvel that after all these years, Gerard is just as predictable as ever. Gerard is actually going to shoot him through his own granddaughter, who might or might not survive such a thing. It’s exactly how he had guessed that Gerard would react to the human shield, and that’s when Chris drops down through the hole in the ceiling.

They’re not armed, of course, because they had no way to get any weapons from the complex. But Peter has teeth and claws, and he’s not worried. While Chris and Gerard go tumbling to the ground and Gerard’s rifle skitters across the floor, Peter jumps onto Kate. She’s taken off guard, distracted by Chris’ abrupt entrance – by Chris living and breathing – and his teeth sink into her throat before she can try to get a shot off. It’s too quick a death for her, and he regrets it a little, but needs must when the devil drives. Allison screams, more out of surprise than anything else, and Peter lets Kate’s body go. It hits the floor with a thump.

Chris and Gerard are still grappling, because Chris is strong but even after everything that’s happened, Peter knows he’s still reluctant to kill his father. Gerard has no such restraint.

Then there’s a gunshot, and everyone goes still.

Stiles has retrieved Gerard’s rifle from where it went flying, and put a bullet in the ceiling. His chest is heaving for breath, and he’s still deathly pale and clearly struggling to stay upright. But he hadn’t missed his chance. Peter feels another slight surge of almost paternal pride for the young man.

“You okay, Dad?” Stiles asks, and Chris nods and gets up off the floor, leaving Gerard on his back.

“Hey,” Chris says quietly, “let me have the gun, Stiles. Okay?”

Stiles doesn’t even look at him. He’s entirely focused on Gerard, but his hands are shaking.

“Your parents wouldn’t want you to be a killer for their sake, son,” Gerard says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Stiles says. “What my parents want doesn’t matter, because they’re dead, because you killed them. So why the fuck should I care what _you_ think they would want for me?”

“Do it, then,” Gerard says.

Stiles surprises all of them by pulling the trigger. The shot hits Gerard in the leg, and he gives a wheezing grunt of pain.

“Beg for your life, Gerard,” Stiles says, keeping the gun up and aimed. “Beg like my mother did. ‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘I have a little boy,’ she said. In her dying moments, my mother was still thinking of me. So fucking _beg_ , Gerard, beg for your life and I’ll end it quickly like you did for her. Otherwise I’m going to see how many non-fatal wounds you can survive.”

“Stiles,” Chris says again, but he doesn’t dare get too close.

Now Stiles’ gaze flickers to him. The gun wavers. Stiles mumbles, “Daddy, I don’t feel good.” His knees unhinge and he collapses.

Chris grabs him before he can hit the ground. The gun clatters to the floor. Gerard sees his chance and lunges for it, but before he can get all the way to his feet on his wounded leg, there’s a furious snarl and Derek barrels through the door. He takes the half-standing Gerard in a tackle so hard that they go through the wall of the motel and into the street. Peter can hear the crack of half of Gerard’s bones breaking on impact.

“Stiles? Stiles!” Chris is cradling his son in his arms, trying to get a response out of him. “Stiles, look at me, talk to me – ”

Peter jerks his head towards the door. “Scott! Get your mother!”

A minute later, Scott comes running into the room with Melissa behind him. She kneels down beside Chris and presses her fingers against Stiles’ neck. “Pulse is erratic but there,” she says, giving him a quick onceover. “Was he complaining about any symptoms?”

“He seemed short of breath,” Chris says. His voice is steady, but Peter can smell his panic. “And he was rubbing his chest, like he was in pain.”

“Okay. Was he – ” Melissa frowns. “He’s wet. His hair is wet. Was he underwater earlier?”

“Y-Yeah,” Allison says, her voice breathy. “Gerard was – he put him underwater. To make him talk.”

“Okay, we need to get him back to the compound,” Melissa says. “I can’t treat him here.”

“If there’s water in his lungs, can’t we just thump him on the back until he coughs it up?” Derek asks, coming back inside, covered in blood.

“It’s not like that,” Melissa says. “It’s called secondary drowning. The water irritates the lining of the lungs and prevents them from absorbing oxygen. He needs more than what I can do for him here.”

“Then let’s go,” Chris says, standing up.

“We can’t just walk into the – ” Cora starts.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Chris says. He’s already on his feet and carrying Stiles. “And God help anyone who tries to get in my way. Peter, throw Gerard’s body in the back of the truck, but cover it up. I might need it. Allison, come with me. The rest of you, get moving – the backup is still on its way. I’ll meet you at Deaton’s later.”

“I’m coming with you,” Derek says.

“No, you aren’t, and no, we’re not arguing about this,” Chris says, already halfway to the truck. Cora and Scott both grab Derek to keep him from following.

“You can’t, Der,” Cora says. “If it was any of the rest of us who might get thrown in a cell, that would be one thing, but they have orders to shoot you on sight.”

Derek growls. “You don’t even know if they’ll let you into the compound. You’ll have to stop, to explain – he could be dead by the time you manage to convince them, and even then we don’t know if they’ll have the right equipment to treat him, if they’ll be able to help him at all – ”

“Do you have a better idea?” Chris snaps.

“I can turn him.”

Chris hesitates. “I don’t know that he would – ”

“He would,” Derek says. “We talked about it, after he got that bad virus over the winter. He said if he ever really got sick, he would come to me.”

“Chris,” Melissa says urgently, “we don’t have time to talk about this. What do you want to do?”

Chris’ jaw tightens. He gives his head a little shake, then turns to her and says, “You – you decide. Make a medical decision. I can’t – I – ”

Melissa doesn’t wait for him to finish stammering. She’s already turned back to Derek and says, “Do it.”

Derek’s fangs are already out and he grabs Stiles by the wrist, teeth sinking down into the flesh of his forearm. The teenager shudders in Chris’ arms and draws in a labored breath, then starts coughing. “Easy, easy,” Chris murmurs, lowering them both to the ground. He smoothes Stiles’ hair back out of his face. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he says, as Stiles continues to cough raggedly. “Everything’s going to be okay now.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put my notes at the end this time, so as not to spoil the very end. ^_^

 

They evacuate quickly, tossing both Kate and Gerard’s bodies into the truck so the backup detail won’t know what happened to them. Allison drives, while Chris stays in the front, holding onto an unconscious Stiles. Everyone else follows on foot. There are too many people to cram into Deaton’s, and there aren’t a lot of other safe places. They settle on the library. It’s not suitable for a long-term stay, since the roof is mostly gone, but it’ll do for a couple days.

They hide in the old stacks. Derek has Stiles cradled in his arms, but he’s well and passed out, and Allison says he mentioned he hadn’t slept the night before. “What now?” she asks, watching her brother sleep.

“We can’t give the militia long,” Chris says. “By now, backup will have reached the motel. They won’t find any bodies, but they _will_ find plenty of blood. We’re going to have the entire militia in town, every patrol available, by nightfall. We have to act fast to stop that.”

“How?” Derek asks. “Everyone thinks you’re dead, and a traitor on top of it. You can’t exactly show up and start giving orders again.”

“I might actually be able to,” Chris says. “I’m obviously not dead, which means I might not be a traitor, either. I could tell the lieutenants that it was a ruse to get me in with the Hale pack. Make me look like a traitor and hang me, then have me rescued by unknown means to make it look like someone supernatural was helping me.”

“Okay, but the problem is, that leaves the monsters as bad guys,” Derek says. “And it still gives us no way to explain Kate and Gerard being dead.”

“The wendigoes killed Kate and Gerard,” Peter says, “and we saved Chris from them.” He smiles at Chris and says, “Two birds, one stone.”

“That’s good,” Chris says, nodding slowly. “That’s very good. We called for backup and were going to head to an abandoned motel that I had been shown earlier this week, while working with the werewolves. Kate and Gerard were killed there, but you saved me.”

“Won’t they just say that we only did that because we thought you were on our side?” Scott asks.

“I can spin that,” Chris says. “Just tell them that I hadn’t been working with you and you had no way of knowing I was anything but a random militia man on the run from a bunch of hungry monsters, but you still sheltered me anyway.” He lets out a breath. “We have to take this slowly. If I waltz in there and say we’re going to abandon all of Gerard’s policies, it wouldn’t go well. So be – be patient with me, with all of us. We can make Beacon Hills a good place to live, but it will take time.”

“Maybe we can at least make it out of the valley now,” Cora says. “To see what it’s like out there, and decide whether it would be better to stay or go.”

“That, at least, I should be able to help with.” Chris gets to his feet. “I’ve got to get back. Allison, why don’t you come with me?” he adds, and she nods. “Derek, I’ll leave Stiles with you. Take care of my son, okay?”

“Always,” Derek says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles jerks awake when there’s the blare of a car horn. He flails slightly, and gentle arms grab him before he can fall. The echoes of the noise make his ears ring, and he groans, shaking his head to try to clear it. Once the noise subsides, he’s surprised to find that he’s in surprisingly little pain. His memory of what happened after leaving the compound is blurry, but he’s pretty sure that he should be in pain.

“Hey, hey, settle down,” Derek says, and Stiles finds himself sitting up with his face pressed into Derek’s shoulder. He smells great. Different. There are layers to it that he never noticed before. He can’t even find the words for it. “How are you feeling, you okay?”

“Yeah, I . . .” Stiles pats down his chest. His hands feel different. “ _Am_ I okay?”

“You should be.” Derek smoothes his hand over Stiles’ hair. “You were hurt, but you . . . but you should be fine now.”

It takes Stiles’ addled brain a few minutes to sort through the facts and come to the obvious conclusion. “You . . . you turned me.”

“I had to,” Derek says, his arms tightening around him slightly. “You were hurt. Bad. Melissa said you were dying, so . . . I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Stiles says. He manages to sit up straighter, and rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not angry. I was just a little surprised. I mean, you’d think I would remember a thing like that, but I don’t. I don’t remember much of anything after Allison got me into the truck. I think I passed out for a little while, and then . . . I sort of remember seeing my dad? But it’s pretty blurry.”

“You were totally out of it by the time that . . .” Derek shakes his head a little. “Melissa said it was called secondary drowning. That you must have still had some water in your lungs, and it was keeping your lungs from taking in oxygen or something. I guess . . . Gerard had you underwater for a while.”

“Yeah.” Stiles takes a breath. _That_ , he remembers. He remembers Gerard putting him underwater, over and over again. “He wanted to know where you were. I sent him to the distillery. I hoped they would kill him.”

Derek takes Stiles’ face in between his hands. “You’re amazing,” he says. “I can’t get over how brave you are.”

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head, but doesn’t protest. “I’d thought about it, you know. About the day he would eventually figure out I was the mole. I mean, you can’t _prepare_ for something like that, but at least I’d thought about it. Researched the ways he might do it, what he did to other people. And thought about how . . . I’d have to lie. How lying would be my only chance.” He lets out a sick little laugh. “I was actually glad when the wendigoes started giving you all that trouble because I finally knew where I could send him.”

“I guess that did work out,” Derek says, still stroking his hair.

Stiles leans into his shoulder. “How’s my dad? Allison?”

“They’re okay. Your dad went back to the complex to explain away his resurrection as an undercover act, and try to rein in the militia before they could firebomb the entire town looking for whoever killed Gerard and Kate.”

“Oh.” Stiles swallows. “They’re dead, then?”

“Yeah. Peter killed Kate, and I . . . you really don’t remember what happened?”

Stiles casts back in his memory. In between the haze of pain and exhaustion, he seems to remember looking down the barrel of a gun. “Did I kill Gerard?”

“No. You were going to, but you passed out. He went for the gun, so I grabbed him and . . . I’m sorry. I know you wanted to kill him.”

“I did, but . . . that wasn’t what mattered most of all. What mattered was that he was dead. That he couldn’t hurt people anymore, that he would never make another orphan. That was what mattered to me. That’s what my parents would have wanted. So thank you. For doing what I couldn’t.”

“You’re welcome.” Derek leans down and kisses him on the forehead. “You hungry? We’re having a feast, since we had all that stuff we gathered up for the run.”

Stiles finds that he is. He sits up, and leans against Derek’s shoulder for a minute, subconsciously rubbing his cheek against it, layering his scent over Derek’s. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s eat.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris’ entrance back into the military compound goes a little more easily than he expected. The guards are so dumbfounded to see him _alive_ that they don’t even seem to remember that he was hanged for treason. He capitalizes on the confusion by immediately saying he has important intelligence and needs to speak to all the officials who are currently on base. A few minutes later, he’s in a room with six lieutenants who are all asking questions at the same time.

He feeds them the story about going undercover and adds in just enough detail about how he got out of the complex that nobody questions him. He tells them about finding the wendigoes and calling Kate to send her team, and about how Gerard had been killed. Then it’s the tricky part. Kate is missing, he says, because they were closely pursued, and when werewolves offered him shelter, he accepted. But Kate refused.

“She decided she would rather take her chances and continue to fight,” Chris says, “but I knew that one of us had to be left, to keep this town safe. So we went separate ways. And if Kate did survive, she could be injured, and it’s imperative that we find her right away. We’re going to organize into five different search parties . . .”

A number of things work in his favor here. For one thing, the men are used to his authority. They’ve followed his orders for years. And Gerard was never exactly popular. He ruled through fear, and to a lesser extent, respect. Chris is genuinely liked and admired by the troops, so they’re happy to see him return and willing to take his word that he isn’t a traitor. Lastly, needing to ‘look for Kate’ is an immediate directive, an urgent order he can give to keep anyone from thinking too hard about what’s happening.

He gets them all divided into teams and then says he needs to go grab some weapons, since he doesn’t have any. It takes a few minutes to get his gear, including a radio. Then he finds a quiet place in the barracks and turns it to the channel he had told Peter to use. They had taken Gerard’s radio off his body. “Peter, you there? Come back.”

A moment later, Peter drawls into the radio. “Hello, Chris. What are you wearing? Over.”

“You’re hilarious,” Chris says, “but this isn’t the time. Is everything ready? Over.”

“Yes, we’ve deposited Kate’s body in the alley behind the bank. They’ll need to actually look for it, because it’s somewhat hidden, but if they do a thorough search, they’ll find it. We found a couple of the wendigo bodies and dragged them there as well, to make it look like she went down fighting them. Over.”

“Brilliant,” Chris says. “I’ll call you later tonight. Out.”

He tucks the radio away and heads back out. The teams are ready to go. He chooses one that will go nowhere near the bank. He doesn’t want to be there when they find Kate’s body, doesn’t want to make it look like he influenced that in any way.

He slides back into the familiar routine of a search-and-rescue patrol. They’re a little different from the norm, but he’s done them before. The Hale pack was going to use Deaton to spread the word that there would be extra patrols in town, so no supernatural creatures are lurking in the shadows.

About two hours have gone by before his radio crackles. “Captain Argent? This is Delta team, come back.”

“Go for Argent,” Chris says.

“We’ve found her, sir. Over.”

“How is she? Over.”

“She . . . she’s gone, sir. Over.”

Chris gives it a moment to leave the impression that he’s struggling with it, then says, “Bring her back to base. Alpha, beta, delta, reconvene at HQ. Epsilon, return to standard patrol. Out.”

He puts his radio away. His men murmur condolences. They head back to base. He winds up back in the same room with the same guys. A quick examination of Kate’s body and he confirms that the wendigoes killed her. It’s lucky that they use teeth and claws, the same as a werewolf does. He makes up some bullshit about the width of the claw marks making him sure it was a wendigo. Why not? Gerard did the same sort of thing all the time.

“What are we going to do about them?” one of the lieutenants asks.

Chris shakes his head. “Seven were killed in the firefight earlier. Kate was found with two more. There’s only a couple left. And I’m not going to send out a bunch of people to look for stragglers. Not at night. It’s too dangerous. We’ll do another thorough search in the morning. For now, double the perimeter guard, and let’s get some sleep.”

Everyone agrees. Chris realizes in that moment that he has no idea where to go to sleep. He’s not going to go back to the house he lived in. Victoria will be there, and after the way she treated Stiles, he has nothing to say to her. He knows he can’t avoid her forever, and at some point he’ll have to deal with her, but it’s not something he’s up to right now.

He doesn’t have a room in the barracks, and it seems morbid to sleep in Gerard’s or Kate’s. So instead he checks the roster and finds the room Stiles had been assigned. Somehow he’s not surprised to find Allison already there, curled up in Stiles’ bed. There isn’t room for two on the militia cot, but he’s slept on the floor before. He grabs a few of Stiles’ pairs of fatigues to use as a pillow and a jacket to use as a blanket, and falls asleep thinking about what the next day is going to bring.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter doesn’t sleep much that night, sitting by the radio in case Chris needs to call him for anything. He’s been thinking a lot, carefully mapping out the things they’re going to need to think about in the coming weeks. A lot is going to change, possibly very quickly, and they need to be prepared.

As the sun rises, he comes down from the balcony where he’s been sitting. A few of the pack members are up and about, and of course there are two on watch. Derek is still sleeping, curled up in a corner, and Stiles is sprawled across him. Peter shakes his head and starts making himself some breakfast.

The radio crackles. “Peter, come in, over.”

Peter rolls his eyes a little. Chris is still so . . . formal a lot of the time. Rigid, even. Peter has to admit that he likes the precise, military man. Partially because it’s so much fun to be imprecise in return. He picks up the radio. “Good morning, Chris. I hope you’re pining for me.”

Several of the betas giggle. Derek stirs in his sleep and rolls over, rubbing a hand over his face and yawning. There’s a moment of silence, and then Chris says, “You forgot to say over.”

“I beg your pardon,” Peter says, amused. “I’m not used to conversing this way. Over.”

“You shouldn’t stay at the library today,” Chris says. “We’re getting patrols organized to hunt down however many wendigoes might still be alive, and since the library is known to be empty, they’ll search it. Head down to the distillery. It’s one place they won’t look. Over.”

“How delightfully morbid of you,” Peter says. “Over.”

“Stop quipping and follow orders. Over.”

“I do like being ordered around by you,” Peter says, to another chorus of giggling. Derek is sitting up now, and rolls his eyes as he reaches for the mug of tea Scott is handing him. “We’ll get moving. Over and out.”

“It’s just out. Over.”

“What? . . . bloody hell, over.”

“ ‘Over and out’ is redundant,” Chris says. He sounds amused. “If you’re saying out, obviously you’re saying over. So, it’s just out. Out.”

Peter sets down the radio. “Smug little fucker,” he says, but he can’t stop the smirk rising to his face. Or the blood rushing to his dick. He decides he had better get up and take a little walk while the others are getting ready to go. They reconvene a few minutes later. Stiles is awake by then, and nearly breaks one of their lanterns when he tries to toss it to Isaac and uses far more force than anticipated.

“You’ll get used to it,” Derek assures him, staring at Stiles in a mixture of adoration and hunger. Peter just gives a little snort and takes the lead. He always does when they move together, ranging out ahead to scout for any dangers. But the early morning streets are quiet.

The distillery is covered in wendigo blood and smells terrible, but it’ll keep them safe for a day or two. They settle down and start making plans to occupy themselves for the day. Derek says he’s going to run on a quick circuit to make sure nobody’s lurking in the vicinity. “I’ll go with you,” Stiles says, jumping to his feet, overshooting, and tripping over himself.

“You stay here,” Derek says, and mutters affectionately, “before you hurt yourself.”

“I’ll go with you,” Peter says, and Derek gives him a nod. They don’t talk as they do a quick scout of the area. The distillery is isolated enough that nobody else is nearby. Derek heads up to the roof to get a bird’s-eye view, or at least that’s the excuse he gives. They’ve been up there for a few minutes while Derek shuffles and hems and haws. Peter waits until he’s just about to speak and then interrupts him. “Yes, it’s normal.”

Derek gives him a dirty look. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to ask if it’s normal for you to be feeling even more possessive of Stiles,” Peter says, and Derek scowls at him. “Yes. He’s now your mate _and_ your beta, which makes you feel even more protective of him than before, plus you did just watch him nearly die, which I have to assume has some psychological effects. It’ll probably last a few days before you stop wanting to brand your name on his forehead.”

“I don’t want to . . . yeah I do.” Derek hangs his head.

Peter laughs. “I don’t think he minds, to be honest, so don’t worry about it.”

“Do you feel that way about Chris?” Derek asks.

“No. I’ve never wanted to brand Chris. I want Chris to brand himself. Get a tattoo that says ‘property of Peter Hale’ right on the center of his chest.”

Derek cracks a smile at this. “Glad it’s not just me.”

“Yes, well.” Peter stretches and then gives a shrug. “You did figure us out. Though, you know, it really wasn’t kosher of you to go telling Chris the things I told you in confidence. A lesser person might be annoyed at you for that.”

Derek’s smile changes to a scowl, but then he looks away and mutters, “Sorry.”

“Well, I’m not a lesser person,” Peter says, and then adds quietly, “Thank you.”

At this, Derek’s head jerks around. “Come again?”

Peter changes the subject. “How is Stiles feeling?”

“He seems to be okay,” Derek says. “I mean, he’s dealing okay. It’s . . . a lot. But I think he’s going to be all right.” He lets out a breath. “What do you think is going to happen now?”

“It will depend on a few factors,” Peter says. “Chris can’t make too many changes too quickly, or else he’ll face mutiny. He’ll have to tread lightly. My guess? He’ll rescind the kill-on-sight orders for you and Satomi, and anyone else who might be facing one. Make sure that anyone who gets captured is treated humanely. When that doesn’t cause the end of the world, we might be able to broach the subject of a truce. But really, how things will play out in the long-term will depend on one thing: what’s outside.”

Derek nods. “We can get out now.”

“With Chris’ help, it will be relatively easy, yes,” Peter says. “If the world out there is better, then personally I see no reason to stay here. We could notify whatever authority is in charge of rescuing small towns recovering from a tinpot dictator, and leave it to the professionals.”

“And if it’s not better? If it’s really as bad as Gerard made it out to be?”

“Then we’ll stay here. And we’ll make Beacon Hills into a place that’s safe for everybody.”

“That’s awfully sentimental of you,” Derek says.

Peter shrugs. “I’m not entitled to a little sentimentality now and then?”

Derek looks dubious.

Peter laughs. “Thank you, nephew, for reminding me of my place in the universe. And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go harass Chris over the radio until he remembers how much groveling he owes me.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes Chris about twelve hours to decide what to do about Stiles. He’s fortunate in that nobody there knew what happened to him. The two men who had helped Gerard torture him were both killed by the wendigoes – fortunately for them, as Chris would have done much worse – and the man Allison had tased only had a foggy memory of what had been going on. “What the heck voltage did you use on that poor bastard?” Chris asks his daughter when he finds that out.

“Oh, uh, the highest one?” Allison asks, and Chris pinches the bridge of his nose. “I wanted to make sure he’d go down!”

“You’re lucky you didn’t kill him,” Chris says, but then loops an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and presses a kiss against her temple. “I’d better teach you how to use those things properly.”

Since nobody knows what had been going on with Stiles, it doesn’t take long for people to inquire into his disappearance. After some thought, Chris decides to tell the truth, or at least a modified version of it. Stiles was on the raid with them. He was badly wounded and dying, so when they took shelter with the Hales, the alpha offered to turn him, and Chris accepted.

There’s a lot of stir about this, and several disparaging comments. Chris doesn’t let _that_ fly. He takes the loudest of the assholes and says, “When you’ve held your dying son in your arms and known that your chances of saving him were slim, and someone offered to save his life and you’ve looked them in the eye and said no, then you can talk to me about my choices. Until then, I’d like to cordially invite you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

Most people shut up after that. There are still a lot of questions, and Chris is the first to admit that in the long run, Stiles might help bridge the gap between the two sides and bring an end to the war. “But that’s a long way off, and our priority is still keeping the humans in this town safe,” he says, which soothes some ruffled feathers. He knows he has to take things slow, that trying to rush into a peace will only result in a rebellion that will get him thrown out on his ass.

In the meantime, he’s assigned someone else to the duties Kate has held, and is cleaning out Gerard’s office. He’s thinking about the next time he’ll be able to go see the Hales when he finds something amazing at the bottom of one of Gerard’s drawers.

“Where are you off to, Capt – sorry – General Argent?” the man at the gate asks him.

“Captain’s fine,” Chris says. “I don’t think I’d make a very good general. Anyway, I’m going to go check on my son.”

The guard chews on his lip. “Shouldn’t you bring, I don’t know . . . a team?”

“My son isn’t going to hurt me,” Chris says, “whether he has fangs and fur or not.”

The guard seems a little skeptical about this, but doesn’t protest further. Chris walks through town and out to the distillery where the pack is lounging around.

“Dad!” Stiles is on his feet the instant he comes through the door, and knocks Chris backwards with the force of his hug. But he’s getting at least some control over his werewolf strength, because he doesn’t actively break Chris’ ribs with his hug.

“Hey, you,” Chris says, hugging him just as tightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Good, even,” Stiles says. When Chris opens his mouth, he says, “and before you go off on some sort of weird guilt trip, I’m totally okay with being a werewolf, and I know it wasn’t even your decision, that you let Melissa decide because what the hell do we know about secondary drowning? I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

Chris sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I . . . I should have dealt with Gerard a long time ago.”

Stiles shrugs. “Well, it’s not like I got anywhere in _my_ attempt to dethrone the bastard, so I think you can be forgiven for that.”

After a pause, Chris shakes his head. “Here, walk with me,” he says, and they head outside for at least the illusion of privacy. “I feel like I owe you an apology for more than just that,” he says. “Your life would have been so much easier if I hadn’t adopted you. I had no idea what Gerard had done, that he was responsible for the murder of your parents, but . . . you could have had a normal life.”

Stiles is staring at him in surprise. “You’re apologizing for _that_?” he asks. “Dude. Dad. Don’t get me wrong, I hated Gerard with the fire of a thousand suns, but I always knew that you had no idea what he’d done. Yeah, maybe things would have been better for me if I’d been adopted by some average joe, but there are good odds they would have been a lot worse, too. A lot of bad things happened to the random citizens of this town. Besides, you’re an amazing dad. Do you think I don’t remember what you put up with when I was a kid? How _insane_ I was? I remember all the times I would wake up screaming and you would, would hold me for hours and hours until I called down. How you would hold me and walk around the house all night if you had to. A lot of really shitty things happened in my life, that’s no lie, but I’ve _never_ wished I had been adopted by somebody else.”

Chris feels his eyes sting a little. He hooks his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and pulls him into a hug. “You’re a good kid, Stiles.”

“That’s what happens when you have two amazing dads,” Stiles agrees, and Chris huffs out a little laugh.

“On that note,” he says, “I have something to give you. I found it in Gerard’s things. I won’t lie, it’s probably going to upset you. But I think you should have it.”

“Oh, geez,” Stiles says. “Okay. Let’s see it.”

Chris pulls the magazine he had found in Gerard’s drawer out of his jacket and hands it to Stiles. His hands smooth over the cover, the TIME logo, the picture of Kate carrying him as a toddler, the headline ‘The Murder that Galvanized the Nation’.

“He kept this?” Stiles’ voice is thin and strained. “What, as, as some sort of sick trophy?”

“Yeah,” Chris says quietly. “But that’s not why I want you to have it.” He takes the magazine out of Stiles’ shaking hands and opens it to the page he had marked. It’s the first page of the article about the Stilinskis’ murder, and it’s a full page picture, a studio photograph that had been taken the previous Christmas. _Thomas, Claudia, and Mieczyslaw Stilinski_ , the caption reads. Stiles is three years old in the picture, sitting on his mother’s lap while his father stands behind them, smiling at the camera.

“Oh . . . oh my God,” Stiles chokes out. He flips through the article. There are two other pictures on the subsequent pages. One of his parents on their honeymoon, on some island somewhere wearing stupid touristy clothes. Another taken right after he was born, both of his parents fussing over him as a baby. “I never . . .” Stiles has to take a deep breath as a few tears slide down his cheeks and splash onto the pages. “I never had any pictures. I . . . I couldn’t even remember what they looked like, really.”

“I know,” Chris says.

Stiles practically crushes the magazine to his chest, then turns and hugs Chris so fiercely that his ribs ache. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you so much.”

Chris hugs him back, and they stay like that for a minute before he hears a low growl and looks up to see Derek lurking.

“You’re upsetting my mate,” Derek says, showing teeth.

Stiles looks up at him and smiles through his tears. “Der – Derek, look. Look, it’s a picture of my parents.” He gets up and brings the magazine over to show Derek. Derek looks at it, and his scowl melts into an expression of understanding. He scoops Stiles up into an embrace, and Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist.

Chris leaves them like that, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder as he walks by and heading into the distillery to find Peter.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

With Chris now in charge of setting the perimeter patrols, getting out of the valley is ridiculously easy. They sit down and sketch out a quick plan, Chris sets up the patrols to create an opening, and they’re good to go. The men on patrol will never realize it, because nobody bothers to review the entire schedule; they just look up their own assignment.

Chris could do the supply run himself and take the truck, but he decides against it, because then he would have to bring other men along. There’s no way he could explain his passengers, so he goes alone. It’s just reconnaissance, he tells his men. He wants to check out what’s at the mouth of the valley. Yes, he’s read Kate’s reports. But he needs to see it for himself if he’s going to make good decisions.

Stiles is quiet, almost suspiciously so, as they trek through the forest to the meeting place. Derek doesn’t seem to mind. It’s nice to just walk in the woods, like he used to as a child. Peter is quiet, too. All of them are dealing, in their own way, with the idea of finally having answers.

They wait in the little clearing that Chris had specified. He’s prompt. The military Jeep pulls up a few minutes later.

Peter saunters forward and says, “Going my way, stranger?”

“Get in the car,” Chris tells him.

Peter laughs and leans through the open window to give Chris a kiss. Stiles clambers into the back of the Jeep to find Allison there, and gives her a tight hug. “Check out those two gross old guys in the front,” he says to her, and she laughs.

“Watch your mouth,” Peter says, getting into the front. “I’m your stepfather now.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, and laughs harder. “I take it all back. I never should have wanted you two to get together.”

“It’s definitely for the better,” Derek says, getting into the back so Stiles is squished between him and Allison. “Uncle Peter is a lot more tolerable now, trust me.”

“Is that the best you can say about me?” Peter asks.

“Absolutely,” Derek replies.

Chris shakes his head at all of them, but a smile is twitching at his lips. “Okay,” he says. “Are you guys ready to see what’s out there?”

Stiles lets out a breath, reaches out and squeezes Derek’s hand. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re ready.”

 

~fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case people are curious, I actually never planned to reveal what was outside the complex. I think it's much more fun to leave that to everyone's imagination. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, everybody!


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